Ready Set Breathe (A Steve Rogers Destruction Story)
by BlitheBells
Summary: Steve Rogers' destruction story. Sequel to Run. Daily update. WARNING Before you begin this story, I would like to warn you that topics like suicide, depression and self-harm are discussed explicitly and at length. If this bothers you, I ask you to proceed with caution. Find the first novel (and the second) on FF or on Wattpad under the username BlitheBells. Rated for some violence
1. Prologue: Ready

Prologue: Ready

Ready?

Ready.

Are you sure, cause when I beat you, you're really gonna be embarrassed.

Yeah, we'll see. Just go.

Alright, one-

Steve felt blood gushing, hot and thick, down his chin and into his mouth. He'd felt his nose snap the first time, and crunch painfully the second time.

-two-

His throat felt on fire, he could still feel Bucky's cold, metal fingers tightening like he was still holding on and it hurt even to breathe.

-three!-

Steve gripped Bucky's hand and began to push and tried not to be surprised at Bucky's incredible strength, both of their elbows down on the table, the small, mechanical sounds from Bucky's arm almost completely normal to both of them already. Bucky was very clearly trying not to let his grip become too much for Steve as they strained against each other and this only made Steve more determined to beat him, but he watched in shock as Bucky was moving his hand back slowly, slowly, and glanced up to catch the concentrated look on his face as the back of Steve's hand slapped the table and Bucky threw up his hands in victory.

"Yes!" Bucky cried. "See, what'd I tell you, Steve. You shouldn't have challenged me."

"Yeah, well let's go a round with your right and see what happens," Steve said, only half joking, and Bucky just grinned at him.

And all Steve could feel was the bruises of finger marks on his throat.

Now, it was nearing midnight and Bucky and Natasha were still out for the night and Steve felt something boiling up inside him, rising on the tide of his guilt and his loneliness and every dark emotion he told himself he didn't have the room, the right, the time to feel. He could feel everything inside him, a pressure he couldn't admit, pressing down a cap on top of every negative emotion he'd encountered. It hurt, Steve was realizing. A thick pain, like a dull knife in his side, like he didn't know how to be happy, like he couldn't talk about it now, couldn't talk about it then, and would never talk about it.

Steve sat in his apartment, alone again in front of a blank canvas, submerged in silence.

It wasn't, of course, that he didn't know what to paint. He had pictures in his head, a thousand images, a thousand emotions. But the problem was that he hated painting dark things. He didn't want images of war or blood, he couldn't draw another picture of Bucky on the bridge, or of freezing over in the dark, but that's all he had in his head.

He wanted to paint those things, he felt the need to put them down on the canvas, but he wouldn't let himself. Those pictures were too dark, too raw, and honestly, he didn't have a right to that pain. He just didn't. He had to be okay.

So instead, because Steve knew he needed the practice anyway, he always needed the practice, he drew up some image of Brooklyn, one he'd done a million times before in pencil, the cityscape and the tall buildings, and painted that instead.

It took silvers, and it took hot reds and yellows and pinks and a blue he just couldn't seem to mix right until finally, he just wanted to put it up and be done with it. He was tired, but he knew he was distracting himself with the paint. He couldn't stop now and risk facing whatever he was painting over and hiding from.

Cause that's what he was doing, of course. Painting over it all. And he'd never realized it so acutely until now and he wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Woosh, the tide of silence over top of him, suffocating him. And crackling, the fire guilt inside him, burning him alive. And Steve felt in an instant like he was dying.

It was dark and the quiet hurt in the same way that the aloneness did and Bucky still wouldn't be back for several hours and Steve just stared up at the ceiling and let out a shuddering breath and wished with a fierceness that he wasn't so alone.

This, Steve realized as he let his breath go, is going to be hard. And he hated himself for it.


	2. 1 Set

1 Set

_Don't forget to go back one and make sure you've seen the entire prologue! -BB_

Bucky was falling apart and taping himself back together when Natasha and Steve had dragged him out of the facility, struggling to walk, physically ill. He woke up in their hotel later and Natasha booked them another flight when he insisted that he was up to it and he just wanted to be home. Steve noticed a shift in Bucky, however. He was tired, clearly, and fear lingered in his face and he still retained some of that shelled out, hollow expression that Steve saw in him after having seen him be wiped, but there was an element of triumph there, a pride and a change in him from the look in his eyes to the set of his shoulders and Steve felt like, in some aspects, he could breathe a little better seeing that.

SHIELD was by no means completely rebuilt, but it was going up and Nick Fury was orchestrating it all. They were, he seemed to believe, so much better off than before, so Bucky complied, albeit reluctantly, when SHIELD asked if they could check his arm over for him and return it later. Steve convinced him about it in the end, reminding him that they didn't need any more left-over Hydra knockout shocks or remote controlling taking away his autonomy from him. Then days later, when Bucky felt well enough and had spitefully had his arm returned to him by SHIELD, Natasha took Bucky out for the night and left Steve alone and Steve should have been okay, but he wasn't.

He should have been okay.

The next day, when Bucky and Natasha had returned and Steve was still wondering just how he'd made it through the night, Bucky visited him and Steve felt a rush of relief upon seeing him, standing there in his doorway, managing a smile and just enough confidence to lift his chin.

"How are you?" Bucky asked as soon as Steve got the door open and Bucky let himself in, frowning now at Steve's face, the bandages around his crushed nose and the ice packs Steve was trying to keep around his neck with gauze. It wasn't really that his throat hurt so much anymore or that he felt like he needed it, but Bucky's fingers had left dark, dark bruises on his skin and Steve had seen the way looking at those bruises shattered something small inside Bucky, so he took care to cover them until he could heal. He didn't know whether Bucky knew that or not, but he hadn't said anything and Steve liked to think that maybe he felt some level of relief when he didn't have to look at them on Steve's neck.

"Fine," Steve said, shutting the door behind Bucky. "Never felt better. How was your date?" Bucky smiled the way he did when he thought about Natasha, all adoration in his eyes, and told Steve about everything and how wonderful it was and Steve hated, _hated_, the way he thought about Peggy when he saw that look in Bucky's eyes. This isn't about me. This isn't about Peggy, he chastised himself. But oh, how he missed her.

"Sounds like fun," Steve finally said and Bucky just smiled again.

"She's fantastic," he said, and then he looked down and Steve watched him rub his right hand, some sort of nervous habit he'd noticed that Bucky would do, when he had two hands, of course, and Bucky shrugged, like he had been thinking to himself. Then, he looked up. "And I just kept thinking," he said quietly. "About how I was almost not there. She tells me not to dwell on it anymore, but I just… Do, I guess, I just…" Steve began walking over to the couch, in order to lead Bucky, and Bucky followed, deep in his thoughts, and sat down across from Steve.

"You did it though," Steve replied quietly, both because he wanted to remind Bucky of his victory and because to be honest, Steve couldn't stop thinking about it, either. "You lived." Bucky sat there for another moment, in thought, and then nodded and there were tears in his eyes when he looked up and smiled at Steve.

"I lived," he said. And Steve clung to those words, because he was suffocating and they were something important in the tide of everything he hated to feel, something very nearly inspirational, like if Bucky could do this huge, hard, terrifying thing and come out and smile at him days later, then Steve could most certainly drag himself out of this tide because in comparison, it was nothing. And regardless, if he had Bucky, he could do it. Then, Steve watched Bucky's face change and he looked at Steve and raised his eyebrows and said, "How are you?"

Woosh; the tide, and crackling; the fire.

"I'm fine," Steve said again and smiled and Bucky stared at him and Steve felt with that sinking feeling that Bucky could see right through him. He couldn't talk about it. It hurt too much to put into words.

"Kay, well," Bucky said with a small shrug and he shifted in his seat, his eyes moving from Steve's and Steve let out a small breath because Bucky was letting it go. "If anything's ever wrong, Steve," he said. "Tell me."

"Okay," Steve said and told himself that he wasn't lying because nothing was wrong, he was just fine. He was okay because he should be.

Steve and Bucky chatted more, and Steve told Bucky things about the twenty-first century that he might not have already noticed and Bucky excitedly shared more of his memories and Steve relished in this time spent not alone. Then, something seemed to occur to Bucky and he lifted up his left sleeve and turned his star-ed shoulder to Steve and frowned.

"I was thinking about this," he said.

"What about it?" Steve asked, although he had an idea of what Bucky could be asking, and Bucky turned his sleeve back down and shrugged.

"Don't like it," he said. "But, I was thinking we could do something else to it. Do you have a notebook?" Steve, of course, had an entire stash of notebooks underneath the coffee table, and pencils, too, because he liked to have them around in case the mood struck him to draw something, and he pulled one out and handed it to Bucky, who flipped it open to the middle and sketched out a rough-looking star with a circle around it. "I just want it different," Bucky was saying as he brought the book up to his face and began shading in the lines. Then he handed the book back to Steve and Steve studied his design. "Would you be willing to paint that?"

"Course, Buck," Steve said, looking back up. "This would look great. I'll have to get some new paints, cause oil won't work, but I could do this for you." Bucky looked relieved and he smiled at Steve and thanked him, then Steve grinned up at him. "Nice color choice," he added. "We'll match." And Bucky looked like he was going to make a joke back, but then his face changed and he just looked down and shrugged.

"I thought it might be meaningful," he admitted. "The red, white and blue, I mean."

"It is," Steve replied and stared down at the sketch in his hands and suddenly felt this surge of gratefulness that Bucky was there with him, that he lived, that he made it, and Steve didn't quite understand the way those words attacked him, the words 'you lived'. But they did.

You lived.


	3. 2 Breathe

2 Breathe

Steve was for a surety, very sickly. He had a lot of near-death experiences, lying on what he almost thought was his death bed, and he had faced a lot. But in the end, even now, if you asked Steve what was the worst ailment he faced, he would tell you it was the asthma.

The problem with the asthma was it's constancy. Steve would get better from each sickness he faced, even just barely, because he had luck and a strong will and the ailments would come and go, but he always had asthma and he could never breathe. Because it wasn't always just the attacks, which were horrible and scary and he hated them, but it was the fact that it never quite stopped there. He could always feel inside him the way he was slowly suffocating, every second of every day, whether walking or sitting or talking. He was surrounded by air, he was breathing as deeply as he could, but something was lost in translation from his mouth to his lungs and before he knew it, he could feel the way his breath began to rattle just in the slightest and his chest was going up and down and up and down like he had been running a marathon and he managed to take his inhaler fast, behind his hand, before Bucky noticed. He would often grind his teeth together in frustration that nothing God had given him worked right.

Steve couldn't run because of the asthma. He couldn't walk up hills without having to take breaks. If something scared him or startled him, sometimes he'd choke and his throat would close up and then he would have to scramble for his inhaler again, humiliated.

The medicine was awful, too. Steve hated the way he could feel it, thick in his mouth, he hated the way it made him shake so bad he couldn't hold a pencil steady, hated the way it was loud and obvious and the way it cost his mother so much money to have it refilled so often because this was the sickness that never went away. The not breathing was the ailment that he never recovered from, never simply climbed out of bed and felt a little better. This wasn't a problem to overcome. It was constant. It was consistent. It was painful. And it never, ever, healed.

Asthma and suffocating and never having enough of the one thing in this world that's free was simply the life of Steven Grant Rogers.

Until, of course, a miracle happened and Steve never had to suffer like that again. It was the first thing he noticed, in fact, when the pain subsided and the metal of Stark and Erskine's machine began to move away from him. _Air._ It was a new experience for Steve, he could feel it suddenly filling him up, buzzing in his blood the way the medicine did, but in a good way, a better way, like he was suddenly alive for once and it was thrilling. Steve felt as though that for just a moment, as he relished the way suddenly, everything worked, that he was truly happy for a moment.

Steve never thought he'd suffocate again, but sometimes, he thought he could still feel it, choking him up, cutting off his words, making him deny everything when Bucky asked him if something was wrong. It was like a hand around his throat, or a river over his head, or like he was shaking and his vision was blurring and he just couldn't reach his inhaler. Except, of course, that he was doing it to himself, the suffocating silence. And there wasn't really a medicine you could take for that, there wasn't a name for the thing that kept Steve suffocating himself again, years later, after the asthma, during a time when he thought he could breathe.


	4. 3 Journal

3 Journal

_Extra chapter because these are just so short. -BB_

Steve felt a little better about everything now that Hydra was down. He could feel everyone relax, just in the slightest of ways, and there seemed to be less tension even in the very air. And now, Steve thought, Bucky doesn't have anything to be scared of ever again; no one to hunt him or hurt him or drag him out of his bed at night. And he felt like it made up, just a little bit, for the way Steve let him down years ago on that train, even though he scolded himself viciously after thinking it and told himself that it absolutely did not.

Bucky's journal sat in Steve's bedroom, on the table beside his bed, and Steve kept telling himself he was going to get up the courage to open the cover again and see the black, but so far, it had gone untouched since the first night he read from it in Russia and it's words had sent a deep fear through him. The truth was, Steve still felt a little bad holding it, despite the fact that Bucky wanted him to read it and that he had given it to him. Steve still looked down at it in his hands, glanced at it on the table across the room, and remembered how personal it was to Bucky. It was so private. Steve looked at it and often found himself remembering standing across from Bucky, holding it out to him, and then seeing the desperate venom in Bucky's eyes as he snatched it back. It had never been something that Bucky even wanted Steve touching, but then he was writing in it in front of him, then teaching him Russian out of it, and then putting it in his bag and saying nothing and letting Steve just… _have _it.

And Steve understood, he did, because he had faced death so many times and had done the same thing to Bucky. During Steve's sicker days, Bucky had graciously accepted pages of art and beloved books and even Steve's shoes once (the shoes being just until Steve got better and asked for them back) because Steve remembered how desperately he wanted to leave something behind. How desperately he wanted to give Bucky something to remember him by. So when Bucky handed him that book, Steve didn't argue, even though he felt awash with protestations. Instead, he just felt grateful that Bucky trusted him with this thing, wanted to share with him. As unworthy as he felt, he was too touched in the moment to hate himself.

But despite all this, or else because of it, Steve had been avoiding the journal. He didn't look at it, or think about it, and heaven forbid he read from it. So when he looked at it that day, the urge to open the cover again took him by surprise. Maybe it was curiosity, or some morbid masochism, or even just the fact that he _knew_ he owed it to Bucky, Steve sat down on the edge of his bed and grabbed the journal and opened it.

The first few pages were the same black mess that Steve had witnessed earlier. He could barely read through some of it, and he recognized cyrillic in some places, but he squinted and tried to pick out what he could. And of course, a lot of it was simply incomprehensible. The words ran together and there weren't a lot of complete sentences, just thoughts and scrambled emotions, but Steve read what he could.

A lot of it talked about him. He saw his name everywhere, written neatly or scribbled out or in block letters or smudged so bad that he really couldn't quite tell.

saw steve at starks place and went back to his apartment with him, Bucky wrote. he was gonna show me his art and it hurt i could feel everything crushing -and then garbled Russian that Steve couldn't read well enough to understand- i just feel like i owe it to him owe him this memory i but im not i don't have enough to give him so i just left.

Steve didn't know how to feel. He set the book back down on the table and leaned forward to scrub his face with his hands and remind himself that they were all okay now, everything was okay. And Bucky _had_ his memories and he was slowly connecting to them again and he was okay and he'd promised Steve that he wouldn't cut him out and Steve needed that promise as much as Bucky did. Especially now.


	5. 4 Date

4 Date

Steve had made a date a few days earlier because his loneliness screamed at him inside his head and because Natasha insisted that he get out of his house for a change and now it was eight-thirty and he was waiting at Agent Thirteen's door, just down the hall, and daring himself to knock.

'I don't think I can do this,' Steve texted to Natasha.

'You'll be fine, Rogers,' Natasha texted back. Steve looked at his phone and back up at the door and rocked on his heels and sent Natasha another message.

'How's Bucky? Does he need anything? Maybe I should stay home tonight and help out.'

'James is fine,' Natasha replied and Steve could practically see her rolling her eyes. Then, his phone buzzed again and Natasha added, 'James says to stop using him as an excuse and take Carter to dinner.'

'Thanks a lot, "James",' Steve texted back spitefully and Natasha only replied with a string of her favorite, very random emojis, so Steve sighed and put his phone away.

He thought to text Sam, and the notion was tempting, but he had been standing in front of Sharon Carter's door for a good, solid five minutes and if he didn't get it over with now, he never would. So Steve gathered up his courage and rapped on the door.

Sharon opened it almost immediately and Steve realized with a sinking feeling that maybe, she'd been waiting for him behind the door. But if she had been, she gave no indication and she only smiled at him politely and stepped out.

"Good evening, Steve," she said and Steve mustered a smile.

"Evening, Ms. Carter," he replied.

Steve had been attempting to court Sharon Carter for the past month or so for several understandable reasons, such as general loneliness and a healthy fear of the Black Widow's wrath, but not necessarily because he liked her all that much. Certainly, Sharon was a wonderful woman. She was intelligent, talented and witty. She at least seemed to have grown fond of Steve, of which he was a little relieved just because he still wasn't entirely used to being liked personally by people. After all, Steve could count the number of people who liked sickly, stubborn, resentful 1940s Steve on one hand. (The number of people who liked Captain America, Steve had decided a long time ago, didn't quite count.) And anyway, it wasn't as if he despised her. They had fun sometimes, and he did like to get out of his apartment, but the thing was, he didn't see any sort of future with Sharon. Not really. A few fun dates, sure. Kissing… Maybe. But Steve couldn't be with Sharon, couldn't share a life with her, or even consider doing so, because every time he looked into her face, he saw Peggy.

It wasn't even necessarily the family resemblance that drove Steve away, because Sharon looked nothing like her great aunt. It was simply the nature of what they were beginning. To put it simply, and Steve knew it, too, he was not over Peggy. He still loved her. Sharon wasn't his partner, Peggy was. It was her he missed and her he still found himself pining for when he woke up in the middle of the night, shaking and scared and attempting to wipe away the nightmares with the layer of sweat on his face. And it was her he couldn't have and he was trying to move on, but it was hard and some days, he couldn't gather up the strength to even _want_ to get over her.

So instead, he tried to distract himself by taking out Sharon and talking to her and trying to pretend that everything was okay.

After all, that was what Steve found he truly excelled at most days. Pretending everything was okay.

Sharon had picked the restaurant tonight, so it was some expensive Thai food place that Steve had trouble pronouncing the name of and he followed her down the hall and out the door of their apartment complex, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders tense. He hated being outside. It was November and the cold was coming in fast and although Bucky slowly seemed to not mind as much anymore (he had always liked hot chocolate) and Natasha preferred the cold over the warmth anyhow, Steve still found himself avoiding the chill as much as he possibly could. He just didn't like it.

It was dark and Steve shivered as he tried to hail down a cab and Sharon stepped up behind him, a thick scarf around her neck, pulling a wool hat over her hair, and looked up at him.

"You're more quiet than usual tonight," she commented and Steve looked back from the street and down into her face and shrugged, trying to smile a little for her.

"Give me a chance here," he protested teasingly. "We just barely got out the door."

"Is there something on your mind?" Sharon asked and Steve looked away from her again as a cab pulled up on the curb next to them and smiled again.

"Nope," he said cheerfully and leaned down to open the door for her. She took it from him and stepped inside and Steve went around to the other side, the wind becoming fiercer on his face until he managed to pull the traffic-side door open and fling himself inside the car, where the heaters under the seats were a blessing and Steve began to feel his nose defrost. He rubbed his arms up and down as the cab began to pull away and Sharon finished giving directions. "It really shouldn't be this cold already," he commented spitefully.

"I thought it was rather warm," Sharon replied nonchalantly. "For the holiday season, that is."

"Hmm," Steve replied and then the cab lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Steve folded his arms across his chest and stole glances at Sharon, who was looking out her window, and fought himself to think of things to say.

"So, uh," Steve said.

"Yes" Sharon said.

"How's the CIA?" Steve asked.

"Oh, very much like SHIELD," Sharon replied. "Lots of paperwork."

"Oh," Steve said and again, the silence fell.

"And how's SHIELD?" Sharon asked a couple minutes later and Steve shifted in his seat and nodded.

"Uh, fine," he said. Silence.

Steve thought this was probably his fault. He was never a good conversationalist, and never good with women. He wondered if Bucky were here, he would still know just what to say, like he used to, and he thought maybe not, but either way it didn't matter, because Steve had to muddle through this himself.

They arrived at the restaurant and Sharon wasn't usually one to let men open doors for her, so when Steve tried to walk around the cab to try, the door flung out and hit him in the side before he could touch it and he stood there for a moment in stunned humiliation as Sharon climbed out of the car, all awkward apologies.

"It's fine, it's fine," Steve tried to say until finally, he just turned around and paid the cab driver through the window and, embarrassed, let Sharon lead him inside.

This is already a nightmare, Steve thought.

'Save me', he texted as discreetly as he could to Natasha, but this time, she didn't respond.

They sat down at a table and Sharon began looking through the menu and saying things and when she looked up, that's when Steve discovered that he had been wrong. It was true that Sharon and Peggy didn't have much in common and they didn't look anything alike, but Steve hadn't looked into Sharon's eyes before like he did now and suddenly, all he could see was Peggy there.

"Steve," Sharon said and Steve blinked at her, but everything was hurting him now, except that he couldn't let it. He couldn't let it hurt him. Steve wanted to do something, grind his teeth together, stand up, hit something, but he stopped and scolded himself and shoved everything back down and held it there and let the water, let that tide wash over his head. "Steve," Sharon said again and she looked concerned, her eyebrows furrowing and she put her menu back down on the table and leaned over to him. "What's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing," Steve said quietly.

Because the thing was, if Steve told Sharon that he still loved her great aunt, he wasn't altogether certain how she would react. He assumed that she would be hurt. And besides, this was his problem and he could get over it himself. Sharon didn't need to be hurt by him, she didn't need to hear him say those things to her over their dinner table.

"You look troubled," Sharon said.

"Well I," Steve started and looked down and when he looked back up, he was smiling at her. "I've never had Thai." Sharon let out a breath and cracked a smile.

"I promise you, it's nothing to look so sullen over," she said to him, rolling her eyes playfully and picking up her water glass. "Just order what I order."

"Gotcha," Steve replied and realized then that if he was to become a master in the art of Pretending Everything Is Okay, he ought to concentrate a little harder because things were slipping through the cracks in his armour and Sharon was beginning to notice.

This is ridiculous, Steve chastised himself. I'm making a big deal out of everything.

Through the rest of the night, Steve tried very hard to convince Sharon that he was fine again. The Thai food wasn't bad, just different, but he ate all of it both because he knew he would be starving if he didn't and because he still found it difficult to break the urge not to waste anything. He made Sharon laugh, and she smiled at him, the way she smiled when the corners of her eyes crinkled up and Steve knew she was beautiful, he just didn't know how to love her was all.

Because Sharon was a better conversationalist than Steve, they maintained a decent conversation through the night. Steve wondered, however, how long it would take until they could be comfortable together in silence.

Finally, Steve mentioned that maybe they ought to start leaving and Sharon let him insist on paying for the meal and even let him open her door for her once they got back to their apartment, but when it was time to say goodbye and Sharon was standing in her doorway again, she stopped Steve from walking away.

"Steve, I just want you to know, I'm only here in this complex because of you," she said. "I was only stationed here on a mission, I don't even work for SHIELD anymore, but I decided not to move because of you." Steve stared at her, his hands in his pockets, turning over his shoulder, and was silent for a moment. To be honest, he didn't know what to say. Sharon looked down and laughed a little and shrugged. "I just thought I ought to tell you," she said.

"Thanks," Steve said awkwardly and Sharon nodded and then stepped back into her apartment and closed the door and Steve stood there for a while and thought about what she had said and why she had said it. And then, he called Bucky.

Bucky picked up on the second or third ring and asked about his date, as Steve expected him to do, and Steve unlocked his apartment door and went inside and sighed loudly into the phone.

"Well?" Bucky said. "How was it?"

"Exhausting," Steve replied and emptied his pockets onto the counter and dropped down onto his couch and leaned into the cushions.

"I think it's supposed to be fun, Steve," Bucky said dryly.

"Oh, was that the right answer?" Steve replied sarcastically.

"What happened?" Bucky asked and Steve shrugged, even though he knew Bucky couldn't see him.

"Nothing, I mean," and he laughed a little. "I'm just not good with people, Buck."

"Did it go badly then?" Bucky pressed and Steve could hear Natasha saying something on the other end, but it was too distant to hear, and he heard Bucky cup his hand to the phone speaker and respond in mumbled Russian, and then turn back. Steve shifted on his couch and used his other hand to rub his eyes.

"No," he said. "No, it went fine, I'm just tired is all."

"Oh," Bucky said and there was a pause and then he added, hesitantly, like suddenly he was unsure why Steve was on the line at all. "Was there something... You wanted to talk about then?" He said and Steve realized that there wasn't.

"No," he said, but he didn't want to hang up.

"Okay, well, I'll see you tomorrow?" Bucky said and Steve nodded and didn't bother to stop himself when he remembered again that Bucky couldn't see him.

"Sure," he said and he waited for the click to tell him that Bucky had hung up, but he heard nothing. Then, after a minute, Bucky spoke again.

"Are you sure?" He said. "There's nothing… Nothing the matter?"

"I'm fine," Steve said with a sudden fierceness in his voice. "Goodnight."

"Kay, night," Bucky said, but he sounded still confused and unconvinced and Steve hung up before he could say anymore, even though he desperately didn't want to stop talking.

It was eleven forty-five and Steve hadn't even turned on the lights in his apartment and he sat on his couch in the dark and stared at the wall and tried to close his eyes, but the silence rang so loud that it hurt.


	6. 5 Paint

Sam called the next day and Steve picked up on the first ring.

"Hey, how's it going?" Sam said. He sounded like he was in a car. Steve rubbed his eyes, stretching and reaching with his free hand to pull open the window curtains and DC's bright morning horizon blinded him for a few seconds.

"Good, good," Steve said, shading his eyes and turning around.

"How's Bucky doing?" Sam asked.

"Oh, great," Steve said. "A lot better. I think we can both sleep a little easier at least, with Hydra gone."

"Can't we all," Sam replied and Steve smiled a little because it was true. "I was wondering if all of you had any plans for Thanksgiving."

"I don't know," Steve said. "I hadn't realized it was so close."

"It's on Thursday," Sam said. "I wanted to invite you and Bucky and Natasha to my place. My whole family's coming over, it's going to be a big thing." Steve let out a breath and couldn't stop himself from smiling.

"Wow, Sam, gee," he said. "Thanks. We'd love to."

"Great!" Sam said. "Bring sometime to eat, but not stuffing because that's my specialty."

"Okay," Steve said with a laugh and then, because the conversation sounded like it was closing but he didn't want Sam to go, he began to ask him about the VA. "How are things going down there?" He said.

"Decent," Sam said. "Lot of people starting to open up again."

"That's good," Steve said.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "I mean, that's the first step, man. You just gotta get 'em talking."

"Course," Steve replied, simply for something to say, and suddenly, he didn't quite like where the conversation was going. Lucky for him, however, he had somewhere to be, and he was able to say goodbye to Sam and he'd call back later, yeah, of course, happy holidays to you, too. Bye, Sam.

The place Steve had to be just happened to be Natasha and Bucky's apartment, because Steve had bought his new paints for Bucky's shoulder and had promised Bucky that his red Soviet star would be gone before the end of the day. So Steve covered the bruises around his neck and walked over, his new tubes of paint and brushes in a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and he ran across the street from his building to the other in order to avoid the frigid cold in between.

Bucky was waiting for him at the door and let Steve in eagerly and there was some sort of relief in Bucky's face that Steve noticed, a sort of letting go when he saw him and Bucky sat them both down at the counter across from each other and rolled up his sleeve immediately.

"You still want that same design?" Steve asked.

"Yeah," Bucky said and looked over at his arm, reaching up with his right to move his hand up and down his shoulder, frowning at the star. "Yeah, that same one."

"Kay, then move your hand and hold still," Steve replied and Bucky let his hand drop and looked down at his lap now, waiting.

"Hi Steve," Natasha said, wandering into the kitchen with them, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt and looking like she just woke up. Steve began to pull his paints out and set them on the table, putting the first few colors on a palette and choosing his brush carefully.

"Morning, Natasha," Steve said. It was blue first, bright, strong, American blue, to go in a circle around the red star first because Steve was thinking it out and he wanted to do this right for Bucky.

"James has been looking forward to this with some fervor," Natasha added as she began to rustle through her kitchen for breakfast. "Either of you boys want anything to eat?"

"No thanks," Bucky said.

"I'll have his meal," Steve replied and laughed a little, which in turn made Bucky grin and Steve was going to say something further, a joke, make him laugh, but he was leaning into Bucky's shoulder now and he noticed scratches up and down the paint job and stopped. He rubbed the scratching over with his thumb and frowned at Bucky. "I thought this paint here was brand new," he said. Bucky shrugged his other shoulder, still trying to hold still for Steve, and looked over at him.

"It was," he said.

"Then why does it already look like it's been through hell?" Steve asked and Bucky pressed his mouth together in that way he did when he didn't want to address something.

"Tried to scratch it off," Bucky finally admitted when the kitchen had gone silent and Steve stared at Bucky's face and back down at his arm with the long, thin lines through the red paint and swallowed. Behind them, Natasha set down the bowls she had been setting up and Steve heard her shuffle as she turned her back to them.

"What, with… Your nails?" He said and Bucky looked down at his right hand and then held it up to Steve.

"It's fine now," Bucky said. "I only tore a couple of them, but I'm fine now." Steve dropped his brush and grabbed at Bucky's hand, but Bucky pulled it back, frowning deeply now, and dropped his right hand down at his side. "You know it's perfectly okay now," he said slowly. Steve glared.

"Damn you, Bucky," he said angrily and pulled back a little from Bucky's face, leaning over the counter with one elbow and using his free hand to scrub his face. This wasn't okay. Bucky thought it was okay, he was so unsettlingly undisturbed by it. And it wasn't that he healed, Steve was incredibly glad he healed because if anything good was to come out of the way Steve let Bucky down, it was that now, Bucky couldn't hurt himself as easily, but then again, he still did. He still managed to find little ways to draw his own blood and it wasn't okay, even if he healed, it wasn't okay, and Steve didn't know what to say to Bucky to make him understand that he couldn't do things like this anymore.

"I _stopped,_" Bucky added in the quiet.

"Why, because it was a bad thing to do or because it wasn't working?" Steve asked.

"Does it matter?" Bucky said and Steve ground his teeth and tried to fight the urge not to yell.

"_Yes_, it matters, Buck," Steve said.

"I don't see why it's such a big deal, there were no consequences at all," Bucky replied. "If I can do it, then why not do it?"

"Natasha," Steve said warily, turning to see Natasha standing in the kitchen behind him, one arm around her waist and one hand covering her mouth. "Help me out here." Natasha pulled her hand away from her mouth and looked down at the ground in silence. When she looked up, she was biting her bottom lip.

"I don't know what to say," she said. Bucky turned in his chair now and put both elbows up on the counter, his face angry.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "I'm just fine, it's like it never happened. I didn't even nick the metal. Why are you two making such a big deal out of this?" Steve grit his teeth together and looked away from Bucky's face and began to coat his brush in the blue paint he'd been mixing.

"Turn," he instructed sharply and Bucky let out an exasperated breath and turned back to the side, pulling his sleeve up higher and glaring forward. Steve leaned into Bucky's shoulder and began to paint carefully over the red and the metal plates and each and every long scrape. He worked for a long time in silence, letting the paint dry, having Bucky shift his arm every so often so he could cover every inside angle of every sliding plate and make the blue continuous and unbroken.

Natasha set a bowl of cereal down in front of Steve and then another down in front of Bucky, despite his protests, and took her own to the couch across the room and sat with her knees up, watching the two of them and letting her cereal get soggy.

"I just don't get it," Steve finally said quietly after a while, as he added a second, thin coat over the top plates. "We discussed this, you knew it was coming off soon anyway." Bucky was silent again for a while, until finally he spoke.

"I couldn't look at myself in the damn mirror," he admitted, venom in his voice. "I couldn't look at myself. I'm supposed to be able to do that now. And that-that-" Bucky stopped talking for a moment and screwed up his face. "It… That thing was stopping me from doing that." Steve frowned deeply and looked back down from Bucky's face.

"Well, it's gone now," he said. "Totally covered. You never have to see it again." Bucky looked over at his shoulder and rolled it, admiring the blue circle, and looked back down, letting out a breath.

"Thanks," he said quietly and Steve began to pour out white paint now, and picked out a different brush.

"Don't mention it," he replied and started in now on the new star, a bright, clean, white one overtop the blue.

And of course, like always, this wouldn't have happened to Bucky if not for Steve. He wouldn't be tearing out his own fingernails, in anguish over some marker on his arm if Steve had just caught him seventy years ago.

It was his fault. It was all his fault. He'd practically done it all to Bucky himself.

"So, Sam's invited us to Thanksgiving," Steve said now, loudly, because he couldn't stand to think to himself any longer. "He wants us to bring food."

"Oh, great!" Natasha said from across the room, sounding relieved. "I was worried about that because I don't think any of us can cook a turkey." Steve saw Bucky crack a smile out of the corner of his eye as he concentrated on the sharp angles in white.

"Well, I hope we can manage to bake a pie for him or something," Steve said.

"Who's invited?" Bucky asked, probably, Steve thought, because he wasn't so sure of his own place in a group, but Steve wasn't going to let him be alone because alone was horrible and Steve said, "You. You are. And me and Nat-"

"And Sharon?" Natasha asked, interrupting Steve and smiling her half-smile. Steve rolled his eyes at her.

"Sure," he said. "I'll ask Sam. Why not."

"Just why not?" Natasha exclaimed. "Wow Steve, you're such a romantic. I bet Sharon's smitten with your devotion." Steve would have laughed, except that he was thinking now about Peggy, and he shifted in his seat and almost smeared white paint all over Bucky's shoulder, but luckily, Bucky was watching his hand and pulled away just in time. Steve glanced up and met Bucky's eyes and Bucky didn't look mad like Steve had almost expected him to. He looked concerned, his eyebrows furrowing and his lips parting slowly, like he was trying to think of something to say, like wheels were turning in his head and he was putting something together.

"You're hilarious, Nat," Steve said. "Ha ha ha. Move back here, Buck, I can't reach you." Bucky looked away from his face now and leaned back down into him and Steve began to concentrate fully on each sharp white point, blocking out Bucky and Natasha's subsequent conversation about how fun a Thanksgiving could be with the Wilson family.

"Oh, look!" Natasha said after a while, when Bucky's new star was almost complete and Steve was just beginning to mix the red to circle the emblem in a thick line. Natasha set her empty bowl down and turned around on the couch and pointed out the window. "Snow!"

And sure enough, Steve could see a flurry of white outside and he looked away and back down to his paints, somewhat disgruntled, but Bucky was moving again and Steve grabbed him by the elbow and jerked him back.

"I'm almost done, you can look outside later," he said.

"It looks really good," Bucky commented and Steve smiled a little down at his paints, rolling his eyes because Bucky was obligated to say that.

"Glad you like it, cause you're stuck with it," he said. "No scratching this one off." Bucky continued to watch Steve add the finishing touches on the top coat until Steve finally called it done and began to put his paint away. "Stay still," he added. "Until it's dry. You'll smear it."

On the way home, Steve thought about Bucky and the disinterested way he hurt himself again and again, insisting it was okay, insisting it didn't matter and Steve sighed, his breath visible amongst the falling snowflakes and he hurried indoors. It _did_ matter, it mattered so much, and Steve had hoped that this was a roadbump they had already gotten over, a trial they had already faced, but it looked like it was going to be more difficult than he previously assumed. He just hoped he could help Bucky before he seriously injured himself.


	7. 6 Dying

6 Dying

_Extra chapter because I'm bored and because this one has no decided pertinence to the plot. -BB_

Steve's life began with fear, because he didn't want to die. He had dreams, and plans, and friends and so many things to look forward to. Steve clung to life, and to his fear, until finally, he just couldn't anymore. He hung onto that desperate fear of death until life forced him to realize that death wasn't going to be an unfamiliar thing to him. And that was the first fear Steve ever conquered, but maybe it wasn't for the better, because losing his fear of death only meant recognizing the fact that his death was unavoidable anyway. Steven Grant Rogers was going to die, and he was going to die sooner, rather than later, and he would probably never fulfill all those dreams or be able to grow old with his friends or really look forward to any good thing at all. Steve was going to die and that was a fact. No use being scared now. Then, the fear didn't necessarily drain away, no; it warped, it changed, it became the anger, and the resentment. It bubbled up inside him until he was lashing out and becoming reckless and picking fights, because if he was going to die anyway, did it quite matter how?

Bucky struggled to keep up; he understood Steve and listened and tried to keep him out of trouble, but Steve went looking for it because he was just so _angry_.

Why couldn't he have a life? Why couldn't he have a long, happy, healthy life like everyone else?

How come he was worthless because of something that wasn't his fault? How come he couldn't do what other people could, how come he had to prove himself at every corner, at every turn, exhausting himself in every way possible, just to keep up with the world, just to scream out loud, I'm _worth_ something! I'm more than just a burden! I can do what you can do!

Why did he have to accept help with things others could do easily? Why was it always his very life on the line?

Steve may have come off as prideful to someone who didn't know him better. He may have come off as snobbish or egotistical because he refused help and because he refused to admit his own shortcomings, but he wasn't. Steve was angry. He was bitter and resentful. It wasn't _fair_ that he had to be less than everyone else. It wasn't _fair_ that he had to work twice as hard to keep up. So damn them and damn their help because Steve could do it himself. He could do it by himself and he didn't need them, he could be as good as anyone else all on his own. Without the medicine and without the assistance and without the concern. Steve could measure up, he could! He just needed a chance.

Steve was sick because he was sick and that was simply it, but it didn't help that he didn't take much effort to take care of himself. It was a mixture of the resentment he felt towards accepting help, the resentment towards having to take medicines that no one else had to take. It was the fact that his self-esteem was shrivelling. It was fact that he was so sure that maybe, one day, if he was lucky and if he worked hard enough, he could be just as healthy as anyone else, without the help of a medicine or a doctor. So Steve avoided the medicines as best as he could. He hated taking all of them, even when they made him feel better on the outside because on the inside, they made him feel frustrated and worthless and they reminded him, back down to that core, back to the very beginning, that Steven Grant Rogers was going to die. And he was going to die sooner, rather than later.

And then the war came on and Steve found in this everything he'd ever wanted. He could prove himself. He could do something honorable and noble and no one could ever call him a waste of resources again. He could even live up to his parents.

And if he died, well then, great. What was new there? Steve knew he was going to die, but this death was ideal because it was an honorable death. It was a death being useful, being equal, being honorable. Death on a battlefield far outweighed death on a sickbed. And suddenly, it _did_ matter how he was going to die and Steve was going to die honorably in World War Two, an equal to the rest of the soldiers.

However, because nothing was ever easy for Steve, roadblock after roadblock stood in his way, until finally, he was lying on his papers and switching his information and slipping out the backdoor once Bucky fell asleep because if Bucky knew he was trying again, he would be up all night long, upset.

Then, of course, the serum came and screwed up all Steve's wonderful plans for death, screwed them over so bad that he ended up being 26 years old 96 years later and nothing was the same except everything's the same. Inside him, he's no different, but this time, Steven Grant Rogers _isn't_ going to die. And he'd never had to live with that before.


	8. 7

7

After Bucky had been taken back from Hydra, Steve was very happy. They were together again, and Steve was healthy and they were serving that grander purpose that Steve had been dreaming about ever since Pearl Harbor. Steve had never been happier and Bucky knew it.

But by a different token, Bucky realized that up to that point in time, he had never been more miserable. Not even under Zola's horrible experimentation, even when they cut him open and sewed him back up and injected him with things that burned, this was the true trial and this was the true torture. Because this was the time and the place that Bucky began thinking of himself as a monster. He didn't know what he was anymore, he didn't know what they'd done to him. And he certainly wasn't like Steve, because Steve was pure good, but Bucky, well… To be honest, he'd never been quite sure. But he wasn't altogether optimistic that whatever they'd injected into him was anything particularly human or particularly good.

And Steve noticed then, at least the emotional change in Bucky. It was difficult not to notice, because Bucky smiled less and laughed little and he spent a lot of time on his own, staring and thinking. Steve was at a loss, Bucky could tell. He didn't know what to do for Bucky to make him okay again and Bucky tried to pretend, but most days, he failed.

Then, one night, Bucky woke up, covered in sweat and feeling his blood buzzing throughout his entire body, and he only managed to crawl out of his bed and stumble to the garbage can before he began puking violently. He felt like his entire body was fighting itself, and he realized quickly that it was the inhumanness inside him, doing away with whatever was left of Bucky and his humanity. Steve woke up then, and the rest of the guys in the tent, and they helped him lay back down, but Bucky couldn't sleep for the rest of the night.

This became common then, that Bucky would become ill, seemingly without reason, and Bucky in his shame would never even consider talking to Steve about the real reason why. In fact, Steve didn't know about the half of how sick Bucky was. He got up in the morning with the rest of the guys, did the exercises and worked as hard as he could force himself and tried to hide from Steve the color draining in his cheeks. He often woke up in the night and only just made it outside of the tent to throw up. And over the course of that two weeks, it only got worse.

By the end, Bucky could barely get out of bed. He couldn't hold down food, he was delirious, he was running a fever. He couldn't stop Steve from knowing then, when he was confined to his bed because he couldn't stand up without falling down, and Steve was devastated and enraged. And Bucky tormented himself on his sickbed with thoughts of what he was and how he had been made less and he was almost grateful that his body was rejecting this, whatever it was, and that hopefully, he'd die quickly.

But of course, Bucky didn't die, and the next morning, he woke up and was stunned and almost disappointed to find that everything was okay. In fact, everything was more than okay, he'd never felt so alive. But it didn't make him happy. As Steve celebrated his miraculous healing, Bucky wondered then if he hadn't rejected the serum, what had he finally become?

He discovered soon after, when a bullet grazed his arm during a raid and the blood stained his sleeve, but when he went to check it later, his arm was completely fine. Bucky stared for a long time, rubbing his skin that had healed impossibly, sitting out alone behind the medical tent, studying the unmistakable hole and the dried bloodstains on his uniform.

Bucky reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his switchknife and, before he could think about it and stop himself, he was pulling the blade across his forearm, one hasty swipe, and he felt the pain and saw the blood bubble to the surface, but as he was replacing his knife, he watched in horror as it all begin to close up. It took only five minutes, but Bucky's skin stitched itself back together until there wasn't even a mark left on his flesh.

In disgust, he collapsed to the ground and puked.

For the next few weeks, Bucky found a dark new pastime to occupy him in secret while he considered his faded humanness. He cut himself open with any sharp edge he could find, in different places, deeper and deeper, recording his healing time, wondering exactly what this made him now. And he knew Steve couldn't do this, he'd sewn together enough of Steve's wounds himself to know that this was unusual, even in the field of super soldiers. And no one knew; it was Bucky's horrible, nightmarish secret and he kept it pretty well until Steve walked in on him one day as he was opening his forearm for the third time and Steve gasped. In one fluid motion, in fear, Bucky slipped his knife back into his pocket and put his bleeding arm behind his back.

"Bucky, what happened?" Steve cried and started to step forward to him, but with every foot Steve got closer, Bucky backed one away and concentrated on feeling his skin pull itself back together, trying to tell without seeing when he could put his arm back in front of him again.

"Nothing happened, what are you talking about," Bucky said.

"You're bleeding," Steve said.

"I'm not," Bucky replied.

"You need to get that looked at!" Steve cried.

"I really don't," Bucky said with a deep frown and he was backing up until he hit a bunk and couldn't go any further and Steve jumped and grabbed his arm out from behind his back and Bucky hid the relief in his face when he saw his arm entirely healed. There was no trace that there had ever been something wrong. Steve held Bucky's wrist and stared down, incredulous, until Bucky pulled his arm back. "What'd I tell you," he said quietly, breaking the silence.

"I saw blood," Steve said.

"You're seeing things, Steve-o," Bucky replied and raised his eyebrows at Steve. "There was never any blood."

"But-" Steve said and Bucky cut him off.

"What, did I just _will_ it away then? I cut myself and then I wished it would fix itself?" He said and Steve's face hardened.

"That's not what I said," he said.

"Congratulations, you caught me," Bucky said bitterly, moving away from Steve now and rolling his sleeve back down. "I'm magic."

"Why are you being so defensive?" Steve cried, whirling around and throwing his hands up at Bucky, leaving. "I thought you got hurt!"

"Yeah, I know," Bucky said as he opened the door to leave the bunker. "Stop thinking that."

"Yeesh, Buck," Steve said, but by that time, Bucky was already outside and he didn't know if Steve remembered that now, if Steve had put it together, because he hadn't mentioned it, but Bucky thought about it as he winced at the pain of one of his fingernails breaking down the middle and watched it seal itself back together. He let go of a tired breath and thought spitefully, I'm magic.


	9. 8 Leech

8 Leech

There's not a lot that hurts worse than almost saying something and being proud of yourself to have the courage to speak up, but then stopping in the end. Nothing says more about us than the texts we don't send and no silence speaks louder than the conversations we never have with others.

And there's a special sort of sting as well for the people who want so desperately to say something and feel like they still don't quite know how to say it.

Steve wanted to talk to Bucky again, like they had before, when everything was raw and nothing was hidden. He realized this, deep inside him, as he roused himself from sleep and sat alone in the dark where every raw emotion rose up to strangle him, but he didn't know what to say. He knew he wanted Bucky to be there with him and there was a pain in his heart that he couldn't put a name on. He wanted to tell Bucky that he was sad; not angry, not now, just overwhelmingly sad and he wasn't sure why and he didn't know how to go about phrasing it.

Ideally, Steve didn't want to phrase it at all. He just wanted Bucky to be with him and to understand, without needing the words he didn't know how to say.

But this was another conversation not had and Steve knew in the end that Bucky dealt with too much already and Steve waking up in the early morning with a leech-like sadness in his heart wasn't a good reason to burden Bucky further.

Steve remembered, briefly, before he laid his head back down and closed his eyes again and tried to shut out the sadness, that once, Bucky had told him not to sit awake alone at night anymore. Bucky had told him to wake him, too, that he would be there for him, but Steve wasn't new to refusing help. It was an old and an ingrained habit into him and he closed his eyes tighter and drowned in the lowness and the darkness and the leech sadness and tried again to sleep, even though everything hurt.


	10. 8 and a half ---

One of the really nice things about acrylic paint is that it can coat anything. You can paint a thousand different pictures on a canvas, over and over, one on top of the other very easily in acrylics. And this makes acrylic paint a very easy thing to hide behind. The only thing to give away the fact that you've covered up another picture is that an unusual texture begins to build up in the paint. At a first glance, everything on the painting is okay. It looks normal. But once you get closer and if you run your hand over the canvas, it becomes clear that there's something underneath because it's so rough and overly textured.

Steve hated to paint dark things, but he felt the pull to, like they were images he needed to get out of his mind. They directed his brush when he told them not to, they painted themselves as he cringed. And then, when he was done, Steve cleaned his brushes and mixed himself new paint and started over, coating the entire canvas in white and pretending that nothing had ever happened.


	11. 9 Loyalty

9 Loyalty

Sharon visited Steve without warning that day, which was unusual because Sharon was not one to revel in spontaneity, but Steve let her in gladly because the silence in his apartment was loud and another presence, any other presence, was appreciated. Steve often wondered what it was like for Bucky and Natasha, living together where they never had to be alone, not even when they were sleeping. He thought it might have been like when he and Bucky were roommates before the war, because that was probably one of the best times of Steve's life, and sometimes, when he sat alone, he really missed those days.

There was a certain level of ostracization that Steve felt because of this, and he would have been able to find the words for it, except that he kept pushing it out of his mind every time it rose up, but he hated being in his apartment complex. It was stupid, and silly, but he hated the fact that he was a walk away from two of the people he loved the most, while they were so close to each other that they barely had to raise their voices to be heard at any point of the day. Steve knew that Bucky and Natasha's relationship was different, of course, and that wasn't what he wanted. He just knew he didn't like to be set apart, to be compartmentalized, to be cut off. He often wished that when Bucky had originally decided to get an apartment, that he had been safe enough and comfortable enough to get an apartment next to Steve, instead of next to Natasha.

But, of course, he had Sharon. Sharon was in his building, she was his friend, and now she was here, in his doorway, saying, "I just thought I'd come over and say hello."

"Come in," Steve said, stepping aside and holding the door open wider and Sharon smiled politely and stepped over the threshold and let Steve shut the door behind her.

"Your nose looks a little better," Sharon commented, which wasn't true, Steve knew, because he'd looked in the mirror this morning and bruises stretched across the bridge of his nose and into his cheeks, bright, sick green and purple. Even the fingermarks on his neck lingered, just longer than Steve wanted them to. He looked like he'd painted himself in splotchy, death colors.

"Thanks," he told Sharon, and then let her step closer to him, closer than she'd ever gotten to him before, and inspect his face. She took his cheek gently in one hand and turned his head and her face was pitying. He watched her eyes travel down to his neck and she frowned, taking her hand back slowly.

"He really hurt you," she mentioned and Steve felt everything in him become entirely defensive.

"It wasn't his fault," he said. "_They_ hurt _him_. And besides, I'm fine. I've survived a lot, Sharon."

"Like I could forget," Sharon replied and rolled her eyes. Then, "Did he apologize?" Steve furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.

"He doesn't need to," he said.

"Course," Sharon said, looking down, and Steve thought that maybe she was letting it go, but then she kept going. "It just bugs me. You have hand marks, Steve. I can see right where each of his fingers were."

"But it wasn't his choice," Steve retorted hotly. "It wasn't like he wanted to strangle me."

"I know," Sharon said.

"He's my friend," Steve said.

"I know," Sharon said again. "But he's _dangerous_." Steve stared down at Sharon's face and felt anger flare up inside him.

"Is this what you came here to say?" He asked darkly after a long, quiet minute and Sharon looked up at him and shook her head.

"No," she said.

"Then what is it?" He asked.

"You know," Sharon said with an empty smile that told Steve she was lying. "I can't remember." Steve stared at her. "I'll talk to you later, Steve," she added and reached for his door now. "I'll text you."

"Okay," Steve said, and Sharon was leaving, but before she had gone too far, Steve stepped out of his door and called to her. "Wait, hold on. Sharon, wait, this is important." Sharon stopped and turned around and looked at Steve. "Do you want to meet Bucky?" He asked and watched her eyes flicker to his neck. "He's my best friend, you'd have to meet him eventually," Steve added, stepping completely out into the hall now. "And I think you'll understand better if you meet him."

"I don't particularly want to," Sharon said and Steve folded his arms defiantly.

"Sharon, it wasn't his fault," he said. "And if you can't come to terms with that, you and me are going to have some real issues." Sharon turned to face him, her feet planted, and he watched her fold her arms exactly like he so often folded his. She looked like she was considering, a frown set into her face.

"Fine," she said. "But if I see anything suspicious…"

"Then you'd better believe I'd take a bullet for him," Steve said and Sharon met his eyes for only a second before looking away and sighing, defeated.

"That's your fatal flaw, Steve," she said. "That's not a good thing."

"No, that's loyalty," Steve shot back. "That's the right thing to do."

"Not when you have a bullet in your brain," Sharon said and Steve's eyes hardened.

"I'd be honored to die for someone I love," he said and Sharon stood there in that hallway, studying him in silence. Finally, she let out a breath and dropped her arms and turned away.

"I'll talk to you later, Steve," she said. "Bye."

"Goodbye," Steve said and watched her walk down the hall and into her own apartment before turning back into his, thinking hard about what Sharon had said.


	12. 10 Suspicious

10 Suspicious

It wasn't that Sharon hated Bucky. Of course she didn't, she thought to herself. She hadn't even met him, and she knew he'd been brainwashed, mostly because she'd seen Steve defend him on the news and heard the story multiple times, so she simply _couldn't_ hate him. She'd never spoken about it with Steve so directly until then, however, mostly because she knew he'd be offended by her suspicions about his 'friend'.

And that's what Sharon was. She was suspicious. And it was hard to see Steve with horrible bruises on his face, defending to the grave the man who put them there. It seemed foolish to Sharon. He seemed blind. Sharon wanted to protect him, make him realize that this man posed a threat to Steve. She felt like she was watching him burn himself on a stove and then go back again for a second round and it made her angry.

So she found herself keeping an eye on Barnes. She saw him in their complex sometimes, saw Steve wait by the door for him, and she kept on high alert to make sure that if anything was going on in that apartment, she would be the first to know. Because Sharon really didn't want Steve hurt again.

And that, that was another topic on which Sharon had poured much thought lately. She didn't love him, she had decided. That was silly, they'd only been on a few dates, he was still stiff and uncomfortable and he refused to touch her unless he was offering her his arm and she attributed that to the fact that Steve was shy and clearly had a difficult time with people. But Sharon was beginning to feel warmly towards Steve and she wanted to get under his shell. She saw a potential love in Steve because they had some things in common, like determination and a strong will, and he was beautiful and kind and good-hearted. Sharon wanted to know him. In fact, she had even grown up on stories of his valor, from the world, from history textbooks, from her aunt. Knowing Steve now was a thrill, and even as the novelty wore off and she began to see him only for who he really was, she found that she hadn't been let down. He was altruistic, he was trustworthy, he was idealistic. And Sharon didn't know a lot of people like that and all she wanted to do was protect those qualities with all her strength.

So Sharon stayed in that apartment, wary of the man in the complex across the street and protective of the one just a wall away from her. She didn't stay because she loved Steve, she thought. She stayed because she was interested and because she was letting herself become concerned and so far, that was all.


	13. 11 Similar

11 Similar

it's easier to distance myself from him because it hurts so much. i just dont want to i cant

fACE him i cant and i feel like i keep feeling like i should talk to him but i guess even if i wanted to i don't know how.

what would i say? how would i say it?

its okay though because i dont want to talk to him and i dont no one is making me i can just stay here and steve doesnt have to know anything. i don't want him to know anything.

Steve knew that he and Bucky had things in common. They had a lot in common because they were best friends and they had grown together since they were children, in the sort of special way that people shape themselves around each other until they fit together like puzzle pieces. But reading this through the ink splatters, Steve realized that he'd never quite known just how alike he and Bucky were in this specific area of suffocating. Except that Bucky talked to Steve. Bucky was open with Steve, he shared what he was feeling, he was plain. Steve, on the other hand, looked up to see the tide covering his head

and looked in to see everything he was being eaten away

and he painted over all his canvases in white.


	14. 12 Understanding

12 Understanding

Later that day, Bucky asked about Steve's art for the first time in months, calling him on the phone with the sole intent of wanting to see it and Steve felt touched.

"I was thinking I hadn't seen you draw anything in a while," Bucky said. "The star reminded me and I was wondering if you'd done anything new." Steve looked over to his closet full of scrapped paintings and packed notebooks and remembered a time when they were kids and all Steve wanted to do was show Bucky his work, but he didn't feel like that now, not anymore, because nothing he had done lately was particularly good or worthy of praise.

"Yeah, yeah, I have," Steve replied truthfully and looked away from the closet where painting after painting was covered again in white and many of them were painted over with cliched, generic scenes that Steve felt no connection to whatsoever. "Nothing good, though," he said.

"Can I see?" Bucky asked and Steve rubbed the back of his hair with his hand and let out a breath, weighing the pros and cons. He knew logically that whatever he showed Bucky, Bucky would be delighted with. He had always been like that. But it wasn't just that, it was the fact that his heart wasn't in what he was working on anymore and he had no motivation to show it off.

But this was Bucky reaching out to Steve. This was Bucky most likely trying to get Steve to talk, because he knew Steve's art was so personal, and Steve was touched that Bucky would try and he couldn't say no.

"Sure," Steve said. "But you have to promise to teach me more in Russian while you're over here, cause all I really remember is how to say 'yes' and 'hello' and 'Captain America' and that's really not going to get me anywhere." Bucky laughed a little on the other line and promised and he was over soon, letting himself in as Steve picked out the best canvases from his storage closet, stacking them somewhat haphazardly against the wall. "They aren't great," Steve said by way of greeting as Bucky shut the door behind him. "Nothing special, at least."

"Don't sell yourself short," Bucky said and sat on the ground where Steve was lining the canvases, inspecting them carefully. Steve looked over at him and watched him study each painting and thought he ought to say something about Sharon. But what would he say?

Sharon doesn't like you. He couldn't say that.

Sharon wants to meet you. Well, that wasn't quite true, was it?

Step lightly around Sharon-she carries guns. Steve pressed his mouth together and let a breath out through his nose because he felt as though it had to be brought up, Bucky had to know that Sharon didn't trust him because he'd meet her soon enough and Steve was worried about how the encounter might play out, he wanted to warn Bucky, but he just didn't know what to say.

He supposed, in the end, it was because he wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to communicate. He just knew he wanted to discuss it, he wanted to talk about it, but he didn't know how.

"хорошо," Bucky said and Steve blinked, jarred from his thoughts, confused.

"Huh?" He said and Bucky repeated himself slowly and Steve tried to say it back. "Had-ra-sho?" he asked. "That was 'good', right?"

"Da," Bucky said with a smile, and that was a sound, a word that Steve recognized better as 'yes', and they carried on like that, Bucky trying to speak slowly and use his hands and point to parts of Steve's paintings and Steve repeating after him and trying to remember the new vocabulary.

It wasn't that Steve cared so much for learning another language, of course. Russian was a very nice language, but ordinarily, Steve would have not been so adamant to learn. But it was about Bucky, and it was for Bucky that he struggled through the pronunciation and muddled in the vocabulary. Not only did Steve have the desire to understand Bucky always, especially when he was panicking and only the one language registered in the traumatized portions of his mind, but this was a tool to get closer to Bucky as they had both changed over the years and Steve saw no reason not to change more, to grow further towards Bucky like they had when they were kids, when they became like puzzle pieces.

It was the way Bucky wanted to see Steve's art. It was the way Steve would repeat pronunciations until he had it perfect. They insisted on understanding each other, even if and when Steve refused to speak about the things that hurt.


	15. 13 Burden

13 Burden

_Wow! Can you believe it's the ninth? Cause I can't! Sorry guys, I can't believe I didn't post yesterday. To make up for it, I'll post 13-15. -BB_

Steve found it easier to believe that he wasn't a burden with Sharon because he didn't love her quite like he loved Bucky. He wasn't as desperate to make everything as easy or happy for her like he was decidedly desperate to make it so for Bucky. And likewise, Sharon didn't love him beyond what Steve thought was a mild warmth, and therefore, his pain wasn't the same sort of weight on her. She wouldn't care as much.

So with Sharon, Steve found that for once in his life, he wasn't a burden, even if it was just for the lack of love between them.

That's why it was easier to open up to Sharon when he did, even if he didn't say much, and even if he didn't elaborate. Even if all he said to her was, "I don't think I'm happy."

"Why not?" Sharon asked.

"Dunno," Steve replied with a shrug of one shoulder. He was nonchalant. Even as he spoke, even as he raised his head above the water line and tried to take in a breath, he kicked his emotions down and told them to stay out. "I should be."

He could speak. If only a few words, if only once, if only to someone who didn't care. But he wouldn't let the pain of it into his voice.

"Of course," Sharon said. She stood behind him, watching over his shoulder as he drew and he really didn't like her doing that, but he'd long since learned that people liked to watch others create and telling them off for it didn't do much good. He just had to force himself to believe that she wasn't judging it like he was. Then, Sharon spoke again. "Why are you telling me this?" Steve used his thumb to rub the graphite together on the page, letting it smear, even though he'd been trying to get out of the habit of using his fingers. It wasn't good for the page.

"Why did you tell me you were staying here for me?" Steve replied with a question and he wondered what face Sharon was making, what she was thinking, but he didn't turn around to see.

"Touche," she said after a minute.

"Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?" Steve asked.

"My mother lives nearby," she said. "And Aunt Peggy." Steve kicked his emotions down. He was going to become a master at Pretending Everything Is Okay.

"Does that mean yes?" Steve asked.

"Why?" Sharon said. "What are you asking."

"The Wilsons invited us over and Sam extended his invite to you," Steve said. "Thought it might be nice." Thought it might be a good place for you to meet Bucky. Surrounded by lots of people. On a holiday. Forced to be civil.

Sharon was quiet for a minute.

"Who all is this invite for?" She asked.

"Bucky's coming," Steve replied, because he knew what she was really asking. "And, believe it or not, but he has no plans to rebreak my nose."

"That's not what I was thinking," Sharon said.

"Then what were you thinking?" Steve asked.

"I was thinking I'll be there," Sharon said.

"Great," Steve said and then he balled up what he was drawing, stood from the counter, and pitched the ball of paper across the room and into the garbage can.


	16. 13 and a half ---

It was a sick sort of symmetry that Steve considered because he thought to himself often about how the cold had always been his enemy. It had so nearly been the death of him time and time again during frigid Brooklyn winters when he and Bucky were kids and he had always hated it, so it seemed especially cruel that it was ice that he laid in for seventy years and ice that had grabbed at his very insides for two dark, horrifying, hazy days before he slipped away and under and opened his eyes again to a new century. And he never thought about the ice as having saved his life. He couldn't afford it that sort of kindness, no, the ice had _hurt_ him. He could still feel it, could still feel his fingers stop moving, could still feel the fear as he lost the feeling in his face. And sometimes even beyond that, Steve thought that on the spiteful side of saving his life, the ice had instead simply prolonged his death and he really didn't appreciate that.


	17. 14 Thanksgiving

14 Thanksgiving

_Biggie trigger warning here. This chapter contains explicit mentions and descriptions of suicide. If this is dangerous for you, please proceed with caution. -BB_

It happened at Sam's house, when Thursday rolled around and Steve showed up, trailed by friends and carrying a store-bought pumpkin pie. Sam had a large family and he lived by this park with this tiny frozen lake and it looked so innocent. No one would have trusted it with the weight of a man, of course not, but it certainly _looked_ frozen enough. At least around the edges.

But more about the lake later, because this was where Steve brought Sharon to meet Bucky. He prepped her beforehand, making her promise.

"Be kind," Steve said.

"Of course!" Sharon exclaimed.

"I mean it, Sharon. Even if you have to be overly gentle, don't be harsh with him," he said. Sharon frowned at Steve.

"You make it sound like I plan on going in there and interrogating him," she said.

"I'm covering all my bases," Steve replied dryly. "And no mentioning this whole Winter Soldier ordeal, okay? "

"Steve," Sharon said. "I know how to be polite. You don't have to remind me."

"Fine," Steve said, but he still wanted to convey to Sharon how fragile Bucky was, that he deserved to be treated well, but words failed him.

Sam greeted them all warmly at the door and Steve watched to make sure that Bucky was smiling and that he looked comfortable and Natasha had strung her arm through his and was leading him and Steve felt a certain level of relief because he could trust Natasha to help Bucky. Now, Steve just had to wait for Sharon to show up, which wasn't that long, and she came up and smiled at Sam and hugged him and came in and Steve grabbed her quickly and brought her over to where Natasha and Bucky were standing.

The introduction went well. As she had promised, Sharon was polite and kind. She shook Bucky's hand and smiled, told him she'd heard so much about him, and Steve couldn't help but wonder if that didn't hold some sort of double meaning, but as long as Bucky didn't hear the dig, he supposed he could deal with it later. Bucky smiled back, made some comment about Sharon being good to Steve and Sharon laughed and Steve thought for one moment that maybe everything was going to be okay.

And everything was okay, for maybe an hour as everyone ate and talked and got along and Steve noticed Sharon eyeing Bucky sometimes until Steve nudged her, not gently, and hissed, "Stop."

"Just watching," Sharon replied.

"Yeah, cut it out," Steve said back.

Steve realized that day, put it into words in his head, that he could love Sharon except for two things. One was Peggy. And the other was Bucky. The first was his problem and maybe one day, he would stop yearning for her and mourning their lost relationship. He knew it was his issue. But the second was her problem and Steve knew that if Sharon didn't stop blaming Bucky and soon, then this would never work and he wouldn't even try.

The day continued normally until some of Sam's nephews went out behind his house near that frozen lake to throw a football and no one really took much notice until they heard screaming.

The house erupted in fear and people piled outside frantically, and Steve with them, to find the source of the screams and it was growing horrifyingly quiet.

"He fell in, the ice broke," the kids were shouting, pointing, and Steve could see out on the lake, near the edge, a dark spot, a crack, and he was running to it before the kids were even finished telling their story.

Steve hated ice.

He stepped onto the edge carefully and listened for cracking sounds, but there was nothing. He heard Bucky scream his name behind him. Steve stepped gently, with caution, and crouched down near the hole and the cold was like heat in the sense that he could feel it rising up and grabbing at him in thick waves. He felt goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. He was only wearing a windbreaker. He didn't know what he was doing.

Peering over the edge of the crack, Steve could see dark water and he got closer and he could see the outline of a form, someone kicking, hands flailing, and Steve got on his knees and plunged both arms into the water.

Steve sucked in a breath that brought the cold inside him, right into his heart. He remembered cold like this. Cold that froze, that stopped him, that hurt like he was burning to death, stabbing his flesh with the violent, violent cold and he hated it. Steve felt arms, hands, and he grabbed and began to pull. It was harder than Steve expected and he had to forget for a moment about the fragileness of the ice as he hauled the child out of the water and flung him to the ice beside him. Steve could feel the sleeves on his jacket freezing. His hands were bare and they felt as though they had been skinned. He didn't want to take another breath because it brought the ice inside him, but he had to and he shivered and he hated it.

The child next to him scrambled, shaking violently, and began to drag himself to the edge of the lake and Steve began to hear Bucky's screams again, but then, across the lake, just farther than the middle, Steve saw what had brought the child across the lake in the first place. Their football sat there on top of the ice.

Steve didn't know what he was doing.

He stood and held his freezing arms at his sides and peered over his shoulder at Bucky and saw Natasha next to him and Bucky was screaming at him so hard his face was going red and Sharon was standing behind them with her hands over her mouth and Steve looked back forward at the football and he didn't know what he was doing, but he began to walk towards it.

"_Steven Grant Rogers!"_ Bucky roared. "_GET BACK HERE!"_ There was panic in his voice.

Steve thought it was a miracle that he managed to reach the football. He picked it up and heaved it across the lake and then he heard the cracking that he had nearly expected. He looked down and he could see veins splitting across the ice under his feet. He heard Russian across the lake and they definitely were not the words 'yes' or 'good', but Steve couldn't tell what they were beyond that.

He saw the lines appearing under his feet and his first thought was _move_, but his second thought was, but…

What if I just stood here?

This was the defining moment where suddenly, time slowed down, the world stopped, and everything was, for a brief moment, clear. Steve stood there, staring as the cracks seemed to split too slow in the ice and he waited patiently for them to spread far enough. He considered lifting his foot and driving his heel into it, but he knew he didn't have that kind of time anymore.

Would it be a quick death? He didn't particularly care. He'd died a slow death once before, and he could do it again. After all, he'd served his purpose. It didn't matter anymore.

And this was Steve setting things right. He should have been dead so many decades ago and his living now was on time borrowed. Now, things would be okay and that knowledge lent Steve so much relief, more than he'd felt in years. It was all going to be okay. He almost smiled.

The ice gave way under him quicker than he'd thought it would as time came rushing up to meet him, time and sound and feeling. He was hit with it. It was like he was falling suddenly and his arms went up above his head and he gasped, even though he was expecting it, and the water consumed him.

The cold was unexplainable. He was surrounded in the burning, flesh-peeling cold. He could already feel himself becoming stiff. He couldn't hear the Russian anymore and Steve wondered if maybe he had made a terrible mistake.

There was ice.

There was water over his head and under his feet and all around him.

And Steve was holding his breath.


	18. 15 Gun

15 Gun

Bucky was running before he saw Steve look down at his feet. He could feel himself screaming, but he didn't know what he was saying. He hit the ice hard, his boots pounding into the thin layer, his arms pumping hard, cold air stinging his eyes, and he could hear the ice begin to crack after him and he only ran faster because it was giving way. Steve's arms flung up above his head and he sunk so fast that Bucky could barely believe it was happening.

He could barely believe it was happening. He felt like he was moving in slow motion. He felt like he was in a dream. This wasn't happening.

The hole around Steve began to gape wider and Bucky didn't care because he put his hands up above his own head and kicked off and leapt into the water after Steve.

The cold shocked Bucky. He never would have been prepared for the way it reached into him and froze and he realized with a sinking feeling that his left arm had already stopped almost completely. He didn't care. He kept moving.

He found Steve and wrapped his one working arm around his chest and began to kick violently until both of their heads broke the surface, out of the dark, dark water and Bucky saw Steve's girlfriend standing there where the ice stopped and she reached and grabbed Steve and Bucky let her take him. The cold was beginning to stop his legs, he was starting to sink, until he felt Natalia's hands around him, dragging him out, and Bucky was on top of the ice, dripping wet and beginning to freeze and his entire left arm was coated in a thick layer of ice already. It had penetrated deep, under the plates, into the circuitry and Bucky cursed everything because if it was ruined, he didn't know what he'd do. He'd nearly given up everything to get it back in the first place.

He heard his own teeth chattering in his head. He was sprawled out on the ice and he took Natalia's hand as she helped him stand, but his legs were weak and he just wanted to find somewhere warm. However, there were more pressing matters at hand and Bucky looked at Steve, dripping wet, his hair beginning to freeze over, and didn't know what to think.

"W-w-w-hat the h-h-hell," Bucky stuttered through the way his lips were freezing and he was shaking so hard he couldn't pronounce the words fully. Steve was on his knees on the dead, frozen grass. He hadn't gotten up. Sharon sat by him, her arms around his shoulders, but he shook anyway. He was staring at the ground with an expression Bucky couldn't read, his mouth open. Bucky could see his breath in the air.

Bucky looked down at his arm and grabbed it at the shoulder because he was so afraid he'd lose it again. He looked back up at Steve.

"W-what did you" do what have you done "why d-d-did you" let yourself fall what have you done what have you done "Steve!" Steve didn't answer, didn't even look like he heard. He just held himself, slumping on the ground, staring blankly and shaking. Bucky felt panic, he didn't know what to do. Steve had _let himself fall_. He had nearly let himself die. He had nearly died.

And Bucky was so scared because Steve hadn't seemed to care at all. But he needed to live. He deserved to live and if Bucky didn't know what he'd do if one day, Steve let himself die and Bucky wasn't there to save him. He could lose him. He had almost lost him that day.

In his fear, Bucky became furious. He raised his voice at Steve, he was shouting.

"How could you do this to yourself?!" He yelled. "Steve! Answer me!" He began to try to walk towards Steve and he was freezing, his legs were stiff and he staggered, he was beginning to go numb, but as soon as he got close to Steve, Sharon looked over with venom in her eyes and pulled a gun out of her pocket. She was pointing it at Bucky. Steve was blinking, tears were running down his face and he didn't seem to notice anything around him. He didn't see Sharon and he didn't see Bucky, but Sharon still had the barrel of a handgun in Bucky's face. Bucky squinted at Sharon, stunned.

"Don't you dare come any closer," Sharon said.

"W-what," Bucky stuttered, pure bewilderment. His words were slurring. His lips were freezing.

"He is a good man!" Sharon cried, as though Bucky didn't know that. As though Bucky meant him harm. "Just stay back!"

"He's my friend!" Bucky cried, holding his arm to his chest tighter, stepping closer. "Get your gun out of my face and let me talk to him!"

"One more step and I shoot," Sharon said and Bucky stared at her, shivering violently, every breath painful because it was cold cold cold, and still disbelieving.

"I'm not going to hurt him," Bucky said quietly, as if he had to prove it to her, as if he had to prove himself to anyone, but Sharon pursed her lips and glared.

"I don't believe you," she said.


	19. 16 Love

16 Love

Steve had a difficult time putting into words what was going through his mind as the freezing water drowned him. Earlier he had felt relief, like everything was how it should be. But now, fear was setting in, an old fear and it reached deep into Steve, twisting his heart, wrenching at the sickly little boy in 1930 who just didn't want to die because he was _scared_. Steve gasped instinctively and took in a lung-full of cold water and choked. It hurt. He began to thrash. His insides were on fire, his outside was peeling away. Steve looked up and tried to find the top, but it was too dark he couldn't see anything, and he realized that he was entirely suspended in cold, suffocating darkness all alone and Steve didn't want this. He didn't want this!

Steve didn't see Bucky join him in the water, but he felt an arm around his chest and he began thrashing harder. When his head broke the top of the water, he found he still couldn't breathe because the water was everywhere, it was more than just surrounding him, it was inside him, and hands reached for him and hauled him out and he collapsed on the ground, coughing out water, choking.

He had almost done it. He had almost died. And it was actually horrible. Steve scooted away from the ice, dripping wet, hardly noticed the cold, and hugged himself, sitting there on the ground. He vaguely felt someone put arms around him, and then blankets. His cheeks grew hot with his tears. He had nearly killed himself.

He… He needed _help_. He didn't want to want this. He wished he was strong enough to just do it, and then wished he was strong enough not to. He wished he didn't want himself dead. He wished he didn't hate himself, wished he didn't think he should die, wished he could just figure out how to live, just learn how to live with himself. He put his face in his hands. He shook, sobbed, tried to breathe. So deeply was he entrenched in the pain of his own deep thoughts that he didn't notice Sharon trying to get him to stand, Sam walking him inside, until he looked up and over and he was sitting on Sam's couch next to Bucky and the little boy he'd saved, heaped in blankets and surrounded by space heaters and the buzzing Wilson family. Natasha was kneeling next to Bucky, she had his metal hand in between both of her own and was trying to rub the ice away from it. They were talking to each other in hushed voices. Steve heard bits and pieces from where he sat on the other side of the couch.

"Something something thaw it out it'll be something something," Natasha said.

"Yeah," Bucky said. "But something something Steve, he's not respondsomething something. Someth-he's going to get himself killed." Natasha didn't say anything and Steve looked back down at himself, still shaking, still wet, and tried to get his hand out from under his blankets to rub the tears off his cheeks before they dried.

He could have been dead. He could have been dead.

Steve leaned his head back into the couch and closed his eyes. He was used to almost being dead. He was almost numb to it, honestly, or he thought he had been. He was almost dead so many times he couldn't count them all, lying on his bed, coughing up blood, hearing his mother cry in the other room and seeing Bucky's stunned and scared expression, as if although it had happened a million times before, he was always surprised and he was never prepared.

He was used to almost being dead. He was used to thinking about death, to thinking that he might have to die, or maybe that it would be better, easier for his family, if he did die. The thing that struck Steve now, the thing that scared him, was that he had never brought _himself_ so close to death. His death thoughts were never ones he acted on, just ones he lived with, had to face, thought were reasonable. But acting on them was new and it drove him back decades until there was no Captain America, no World War Two, no ice, just Steve Rogers and every chronic illness that scared him so bad, scared him so deeply that he tried to force it from his mind, tried to ignore it, tried to pretend everything was okay.

Steve realized that not a lot had changed over the years.

The Wilsons let Steve be after a while because there really was nothing else to do and although Steve couldn't find it in him anymore to try and smile for them, they at least gave him some peace. He sat on the couch and stared at the rug and in his head, over and over, he saw himself looking down at the ice cracking, saw himself consider even breaking it further, and shuddered with such fear and such pain that he could feel it physically affecting him, like nausea, deep in his stomach and he wanted to throw up.

Meanwhile, Sharon Carter had returned to her apartment, entrusting Steve in Sam's care, and was attempting to sort out her conflicted feelings, which could be summed up simply with two questions. The truth was, Sharon did not often act on emotion and she did not often act _for_ people. But she had held the Winter Soldier at bay and knelt by Steve Rogers and held him and she had done it all out of emotion. She had felt overwhelming feeling rising up in her heart and these feelings controlled her, she didn't know what to do with them. This was unusual for Sharon and she didn't like it, so the questions were these: Did she do what she had done because she had grown to love Steve, something she hadn't wanted to admit to herself? Or did she do what she did because she didn't trust Barnes?

The questions still standing, the idea of loving Steve Rogers was one Sharon was almost forced to admit was at least a little bit true. It was because the things he did without thinking, she never would have done. It was because he could forgive a man who tried to kill him. It was because he reached into frozen water to save a child he didn't know. It was because he talked about being unhappy and then smiled at her. Steve was her antithesis.

Love was not a practical thing and it wasn't something Sharon partook of often and she never felt her life any less meaningful because of it. She was happy. She was dedicated to her work and she did it skillfully. But she did not love many. It simply wasn't in her nature, but Sharon Carter, well… Well, she had to admit it to herself. She was beginning to love Steve Rogers.

But, she thought to herself. She couldn't really be blamed. After all-he was Captain America. Who could help themselves?

The idea of not trusting Barnes was also, of course, undeniably true. But no one else seemed to be able to see the danger this man was, none of the Wilsons agreed with her decision to protect Steve. Sharon scowled, thinking about it. Most of them didn't even know Barnes, how could they tell how dangerous he was? And none of them had seen the bruises he had left on Steve and no matter how many times he pulled him out of water, Sharon thought, she could never forgive him for the way she had seen Steve wince when he turned his neck for a whole week, for the way he'd had a black eye a month or so ago and no way to explain it except by saying, we were both angry, for the way his nose was so crushed by his 'friend's' metal fist that he had to have reconstructive surgery and wear ice packs for ages, the way he still had the shadows of bruises just leaving across his face. Sharon could never, never forgive Bucky Barnes for the _pain_ he caused Steve. _Never_.


	20. 17 Avoided

17 Avoided

After Steve was warm and well enough, he wanted to leave Sam's house and go home, but Sam stopped him.

"Why don't you stay here?" Sam said quietly to him as they talked privately out in the hall. "It's a holiday. We haven't even gotten out dessert yet." Steve just wanted to be alone.

"I can't intrude on your family any longer, Sam," Steve said and Sam rolled his eyes.

"My family is your family, Steve," he said. "I don't want you to be alone. I'm here, and Natasha, and Bucky. We're your family." Steve would have felt more touched if he didn't already feel so much pain and fear. He sucked in a deep breath and blinked hard. This was it, again, this was Steve being a burden, like always. No one truly wanted him there. "Look, Steve," Sam said and lowered his voice further. "I'm not gonna let you be alone right now. I convinced everyone else out there that what they saw was a horrible, horrible accident, but-" Sam stopped and frowned. "Don't be alone."

"I don't know what to say," Steve replied after a while and Sam clapped a hand to his shoulder.

"That's okay," he said. "We'll talk later. That's a promise." Steve looked at Sam and everything inside him cringed because he was a burden to his good friend. He was worrying him, taking up his time, his space. He wasn't fulfilling a purpose anymore, he wasn't making himself useful, earning his place. He hadn't earned any of this love.

"Thank you," Steve said quietly.

"Of course," Sam said and smiled at him. "Don't thank me. Just go eat something, sit down. You're probably exhausted."

Steve hadn't earned any of this love.

Bucky and Natasha were standing in the kitchen and Steve sought them out, his hands in his pockets, feeling sheepish. He couldn't put into words how many different ways he felt guilty about Bucky. He couldn't describe the intensity of how much he hated the burden he was to him.

Bucky was leaning against the counter, left sleeve was rolled all the way up and he was holding his arm to his chest awkwardly. Natasha had a hair dryer and a bundle of towels at her feet and they were wiping Bucky's arm off and talking. As Steve walked in and shut the door behind them, they both fell quiet.

"Hey," Steve said quietly. Bucky stared at him, and then looked over to Natasha and whispered something to her. She kissed his mouth and said something back and then she was brushing past Steve to leave, shutting the door behind her and leaving them alone in silence.

"You're good?" Bucky said to Steve.

"Fine," Steve said. "You?"

"Three guesses," Bucky replied spitefully and Steve's shoulders sunk with the weight of the guilt.

"You jumped in after me," Steve said after a while and Bucky made a face.

"Wasn't gonna let you freeze," he said. "Or drown. Both, I guess." Steve looked down pointedly at the way Bucky was cradling his left arm and then back up at his face and Bucky pressed his mouth together.

"I thought it was waterproof," Steve said.

"It is," Bucky said and he looked down at his hand and they both watched his fingers respond to him slowly and shakily. After a second, Bucky stopped and looked away, gritting his teeth angrily. "But the water got inside and froze. We're still thawing it out."

"I'm so sorry, Bucky," Steve said.

"We've got a lot to talk about," Bucky replied, as though Steve hadn't said anything, and then he looked up at Steve, his eyes sharp and shook his head. "Cause you've gotta stop putting me through this." Steve blinked at him and was unsure what to say.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked quietly and the room seemed suddenly heavier, the air thicker, and time seemed to stop for a moment and Steve couldn't raise his voice much louder because he was choking. Whatever it was, he was ready to take the blame. He braced himself for the way he knew guilt and guilt crept into him and destroyed.

"I've watched you almost die more times than I can count," Bucky said. "And it's killed me every time and this-" he stopped and gestured to Steve, gestured to his arm. "This could have been avoided."

"It was an accident," Steve said.

"It was," Bucky stopped like suddenly he was the one choking and he screwed his face up and looked at Steve. "A suicide attempt," he said. "You wanna talk to me about accidents, talk to me about tripping down stairs or spilling a soda. Standing on ice and waiting for it to break is no damn accident." Steve stared at Bucky.

"What do you want me to say?" he said after a while.

"Say you'll start having a little caution," Bucky said. "Say you'll stop being reckless. Say you'll _listen_ to me when I'm _screaming_ at you to turn around!"

"Sorry," Steve said.

"Don't be sorry," Bucky said angrily, his voice rising. "Be careful!"

"Bucky-" Steve started and Bucky cut him off, stepping closer to him until they could look each other in the eye.

"What is it?" Bucky demanded. "What drove you to just stand there? You would have died, Steve! Do you want that?"

"I don't know," Steve said and it was the most truthful thing he'd ever said, the most raw thing, but Bucky didn't stop.

"Why did you do this, this _could have been avoided!_" Bucky yelled.

"Why are you yelling at me?!" Steve yelled back, throwing his hands up, his face going dark and Bucky frowned deeply at him and luckily, the din of the Wilson family Thanksgiving in the other room masked their volume.

"I don't know any other way to get through to you," he growled. They stood there, glaring, until Bucky let out an angry breath and turned away, walking over to the kitchen and pulling towels out of drawers to dry his arm, which had started dripping water from his fingertips. At least, Steve noticed, he seemed to be able to move it a little better now, and Steve watched him roll his fingers and turn his wrist and wipe away more water as it seeped even out of his shoulder, under the plates where Steve had painted him a new star. The red, white and blue that had meant so much to them both glistened with droplets of water and Steve watched them run down Bucky's arm.

"It's melting," Steve pointed out the obvious, because he could take a heated silence with anyone except Bucky. Bucky nodded and made a face and then turned back to him and looked right at his eyes with his piercing stare.

"This isn't a freaking game of charades, Steve," he said slowly, tossing the towel back down to the counter and walking back over to Steve. "If you don't tell me things, all I can do is sit here and guess and that's not my job." Steve took a deep breath.

"Buck-"

"My _job_ is to be there for you," Bucky continued. "That's what friends _do_. But I can't do that if you don't let me."

"You are there for me, Bucky," Steve replied.

"No, I'm not!" Bucky cried, throwing up his right hand and keeping his left close to his body. "Clearly, I'm not, because you're not happy."

"It's not your job to make me happy," Steve said. Bucky pressed his mouth together and grit his teeth.

"But you're…," he said and his face was unreadable. He gestured to Steve. "Look at this, Steve, you're hurting yourself. In every way possible." Bucky bit his bottom lip and shook his head and then there was no more rage, he was pleading now, even if he was still spiteful, still angry. "What am I supposed to do, tell me what I'm doing wrong, is there a password, some sort of secret code to get you to be open with this-"

"Stop!" Steve cried, taking a step away and speaking loudly. Bucky was coming dangerously close to territory Steve didn't want to walk. "This is utterly ridiculous!"

"No!" Bucky cried. "No, this is a _promise, Steve!_ We promised each other, I said I wouldn't cut you out and you said the same-"

"-I didn't," Steve said.

"-You did!" Bucky shot back. "We promised each other and now you're…" He stopped and shook his head and let out a deep breath. "You're cutting me out, Steve." Steve again didn't know what to say.

That wasn't true…

Was it?

But he didn't have time to consider further because Bucky kept talking, using that pleading, heartbroken voice, looking almost as desperate as when he used to look at Steve and not recognize anything. "I can't… Can't watch you die. And I can't leave you behind." He was begging. "Please talk to me." Steve felt chills, he felt emotion running through him like an electrical current and his mouth hung open because he was in such pain. His heart was being wrenched.

"There's nothing to say," Steve whispered. He felt like he couldn't quite catch his breath. He felt smothered. But he couldn't say anything. Bucky stared at him and he was blinking now, his eyes growing red, and Steve wondered if he felt as miserable as he did.

"_Please_, Steve," Bucky whispered back and stepped closer to him again, even as Steve felt the desire to step back. This was everything he didn't want. The conversation he thought he wanted and hated and didn't know how to have. "Please."

Steve was silent.

"For me," Bucky tried. "For my sake."

"Bucky," Steve said quietly, because he didn't know what else to say and the look on Bucky's face was breaking his heart. Then, Bucky's face hardened and he turned around because Steve wasn't saying anything and Bucky walked over to the opposite wall and leaned against it, running his hand down his arm and wiping off water.

"Then I guess we're done here," he said and he sounded anything but happy. Steve stared at Bucky and looked down and let out a breath, his shoulders falling, and he looked away now, to the ground, and began to walk to the door.

He had it open, he was leaving, when Bucky stopped him.

"Wait," he said and Steve turned around and he didn't know what he was expecting. Bucky stared at him and took a while to speak. "You and I…" he finally said, drawing the words out from somewhere deep in him, like they hurt to say out loud. Steve stared at Bucky and all he could think was how much stronger Bucky was than him. Steve may be a super soldier, but Bucky was the one who could face the pain in him and voice it, even when it hurt. "You and I are different, Steve," Bucky said. "In the way we… We suffer. But that doesn't mean you're not in pain. And that doesn't mean that I can't see it as clear as the damn nose on your face. So stop trying to pretend you're a-okay because you aren't and you never have been and I've _always known_." Bucky looked down again and flexed his left hand. It was working again. He swallowed audibly. "I'm just sick of being shut out," he said quietly and Steve couldn't bare to look at him anymore, so he turned around and shut the door fast and walked back to Sam and the dinner table, trying with every desperation he could muster to close himself away from the raw pain in his heart.

Because it hurt, like a gunshot wound, like a stabbing, like suffocating, and honestly, Steve didn't know if he could do it. And it was times like this that Steve looked back to standing on the ice and to looking up and see it above him, rising as he sank, and thought it might have been better had Bucky just been a second too late.


	21. 18 Sam

18 Sam

The next day, Steve was still trying to force himself to forget the conversation he'd had with Bucky. He put it out of his mind, pushed it down under the water where it was dark and cold and hard to see, but there he could lose the things he hated to feel and the way he was a burden.

He couldn't forget completely, however, because Sam came to visit him that day as he had promised and Steve was so happy to see him standing in his doorway that before Sam could speak, Steve enveloped him in a tight hug.

"Hey!" Sam said and he sounded surprised and Steve felt him wrap his arms around his back and hug him in return. "How're you feeling?" Steve felt emotion welling up in him because he was _exhausted_, he felt emotionally drained, he didn't know how much longer he could put on a smile and he hated arguing with Bucky, hated seeing that expression on his face and now Sam was here and Steve had to blink away emotion, had to pull away from Sam and force himself to look okay.

"Yeah, yeah, I feel a lot better now," Steve said and then stepped away from the door. "Here, come in."

"My family is so thankful," Sam said. "About Andy, the kid you saved. My mom is baking you cookies." Steve smiled a little and laughed.

"She doesn't need to," he said. "Really, it was nothing."

"No, you saved Andy's life," Sam said. "I don't know what we would have done without you." Steve shuffled his feet a little and shrugged his shoulders.

"Thanks, Sam," he said, looking up and smiling at him and Sam just nodded.

"There was something else, too," he added, his smile falling, and Steve sucked in a breath and braced himself. "About the ice."

"It was an accident," Steve said like he had said to Bucky and he could still hear Bucky's voice in his head, telling him that standing on ice and waiting for it to crack was no accident. Sam looked at Steve's face and nodded.

"It's okay, Steve," Sam said, and then he delivered words the hit Steve to his very core and Steve didn't know how Sam could know these things like he did. "I understand, okay? I've seen this a lot, and I know and you're not alone, okay?" Steve grit his teeth together and took a deep breath and looked away and tried not to let himself become emotional. "Sometimes, it looks like there's no options or you're entirely alone and that's not true. It's hard to talk about, I get that. But talking about it, it makes it _better_, Steve," Sam said. "You are not alone." Steve swallowed hard because these were things he needed to hear and he felt gutted by them, made raw, laid bare. It hurt.

"Okay," Steve said quietly. "Okay."

"You're always welcome at the VA," Sam added gently. "And you can always just call me. I'm not afraid to talk about this, to listen to you. I do this every single day. I can help." Steve just nodded because he was becoming choked up. It was Sam's turn now to wrap Steve up in a hug and Steve accepted it and tried to feel comforted.

People were telling him to talk. Sam, and Bucky, they were trying to tell him to open up, trying to tell him to stop suffocating. As Steve stood there and hugged Sam and tried to stop telling himself that he didn't deserve their love, hadn't earned it, he considered that maybe it was time to try talking.

He remembered thinking he needed help.

Talking about it. It makes it _better._

Steve figured it was about time that he tried.

_I have a horrible announcement to make. I have waited for literally as long as I possible could to avoid this, especially since I reached something like this during _Run_ and was able to work it out before it came to such drastic measures, but I'm going to have to stop posting for a while._

_The difference is that this isn't my summer anymore. I can't work dawn to dusk on writing anymore like I could for_ Run_.__ I'm in university and I haven't had a spare moment to sit down in at least a week. And then, of course, I'm anxious to get my work out and I splurged and posted one too many chapters one too many days and now here I am with nothing new to give you tomorrow evening and no time to put together something I can truly be proud of. :(_

_So, I know this is awful and unprofessional and I am _begging_ your forgiveness, but expect to hear from me again about this next Tuesday, because by then I can swear to you, I will have something truly spectacular to share._

_Again, I apologize. I worked really, really hard and sacrificed a lot to try and make sure this didn't happen, but it did anyway and I'm going to work even harder to resume my posting schedule in, at the very most, a week. Thank you for your patience and thank you for your support. :) I'll see everyone again soon. -BB_


	22. 19 Sorrys

19 Sorrys

As Steve considered opening up, considered talking, considered lifting his head above the waterline, Sharon came to check up on him and he decided to be honest with her.

They made small talk for some time and Steve felt distinctly bad about the entire situation because again and again and again, all he could think of was Peggy when she smiled at him or flirted.

She didn't say anything about the fact that Steve had avoided saving himself. Maybe, Steve thought, she hadn't realized that was what had happened.

"Sharon," Steve said, and he was going now to be honest, going to open up. He had opened up to her once before, if in the slightest, and it had all been okay. So maybe this would be the same. "What are we doing?" Sharon looked at him and frowned.

"What do you mean?" She asked and Steve looked away and took in a breath.

"I mean…," he said. "We're dating." Sharon's mouth pulled up a teasing smile.

"Well," she laughed. "Yes."

"We can't date," Steve said and braced himself as Sharon's face fell. She said nothing and looked at him, as if waiting for an explanation, and suddenly, he didn't want to give one because suddenly, everything wasn't okay anymore. "I," Steve said slowly and frowned. "I, um, loved Peggy. I still do." Sharon stared at him. "I can't feel right about dating you or trying to love you because I just can't do it right now. Okay?"

"Steve, that was _years_ ago," Sharon said.

"No, it," Steve said. "It wasn't. It wasn't. It's just that everything moved on without me, but I didn't. I didn't move anywhere, Sharon." Steve didn't know what to do, or what to say, and talking didn't feel good, and he wasn't sure what it was, but he felt a tension settle into the air then.

He didn't want to hurt Sharon. And he'd tried so hard for her. He'd tried to love her. But he couldn't do it. He didn't know how to say that to her.

"I don't know what to say," Steve finally said, whispering in the thick silence and Sharon stared up at him. "I'm so sorry."

"I know you are," she replied quietly. "Because you ought to be." Steve just looked at her, until she turned around and began to leave. "Goodbye, Steve," Sharon added over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" Steve said and Sharon made a face at him, standing in the hall now.

"I'm leaving," she said.

"I'm sorry," Steve said again and Sharon shrugged.

"Sorrys never made anything better, Rogers," she said.

"It's all I have to give you," he replied desperately and her eyes met his then and he saw Peggy, but sharper, but angier, but bitter.

"That," she said quietly and cocked her head at him, staring into his eyes, almost glaring. "Is why I'm leaving."

Steve stood at the door and stared at the floor under him as Sharon left and shut her own door behind her and Steve was left completely alone in the silence.

Truth be told, he hadn't known what he had expected. After all, he had told her they couldn't date. What else was she supposed to do? Steve guessed that he'd hoped she would stay with him, be a friend to him. Maybe it was because he hadn't spoke right, hadn't used the right words. He couldn't explain to her his pain in words, but he wanted her to listen. He wanted her to know his pain but in their short conversation, he couldn't make himself plain. He didn't know how. He wanted to tell her he loved Peggy, but he really wanted to tell her that he still mourned everything and that life was hard and exhausting and he felt guilty and tired and everything was his fault and he hadn't earned love, hadn't proved himself, could never prove himself because maybe there was nothing there to prove.

He should have expected her to leave. No, he shouldn't have said anything. He should have stayed silent because it just made her leave.

Later that day, Natasha made a brief and covert visit to his apartment.

"Steve," Natasha said once Steve invited her in and they were sitting down. "We need to talk about Sharon. She was a mistake."

"What?" Steve said, bewildered. "You were the one who suggested I date her in the first place." Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Brief error in judgement of character," she said. "It doesn't happen often, but Sharon's hatred of James slipped under my radar." Steve narrowed his eyes.

"Did something happen?" He asked.

"She pointed a gun at my boyfriend, Rogers," Natasha said, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and one eyebrow raised. "I'm this close to walking over there right now and giving her a few good reasons to never do that again." Steve was stunned.

"She did what," he said.

"You were pretty much down for the count by that point," Natasha said. "But she refused to let James near you after he pulled you out of the water. She needs to go."

"He didn't tell me that," Steve said. Natasha shrugged.

"That's what I'm here for," she said.

"Well," Steve said as his shock and anger began to settle in and his face hardened. "We don't have to worry about it anymore. She's already gone." Natasha raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean, she's gone?" Natasha said and Steve shrugged. He didn't want to talk about it. Or anything, for that matter, ever again.

"We broke up. I'm not seeing her anymore," Steve said.

"Not even as friends?" Natasha said and Steve frowned and looked down.

"Not as anything," he said.


	23. 20 Happiness

20 Happiness

When the nightmares came, and the sadness, and the pain, all Steve wanted to do was call Bucky. Bucky was a gift, the one good thing in the universe, his best friend back from the dead, against all odds. Steve remembered when he had first learned Bucky was alive, as the shock faded away. He could barely believe it; it was a _miracle_. He almost thought himself lucky, because if anything could make life worth living, it was having his best friend here with him in this world where neither of them belonged anywhere anymore except with each other. And it was hard and Steve hurt watching Bucky hurt and it was difficult, earning Bucky's love again, but it was such a worthwhile endeavor and now he could say what made him happy, he knew the answer to that question because Bucky made him happy. Even if Bucky didn't see it. Steve was happy when he was with his best friend.

He wanted to be with Bucky then, as he sat up in bed, alone in the dark, and tried to remind himself that this wasn't 1944 and he was okay and he knew happiness. Happiness was asleep in the complex across the street, happiness spoke Russian like he was born to do it, happiness had a bionic prosthetic that could beat Steve at arm wrestling any day. But this night could be any night, this night could be yesterday or two weeks ago or tomorrow, because Steve woke up often and considered saying something to Bucky and he never did it.

Steve thought he would be able to do it now, because he thought he could try to speak up and try to feel better, but he stopped himself from reaching for the phone because he remembered Sharon.

Steve knew now that if he said something and if he was honest, people would leave him. He couldn't watch Bucky leave him.


	24. 20 and a half ---

Steve was tired. He was tired of thinking about death and he was tired of feeling guilt that drained him and he was tired of feeling tired, that emotional exhaustion. He was tired of feeling at all. He was 26, but he was also 96 and he'd fought a war, and not just the one against the Nazis, but the ones over and over and over again, against himself, in his head, every waking moment and every sleeping moment when his subconscious attacked him with dreadful images and he was just tired. Of it all! Sometimes, on dark days, he just wanted it to be done. He just wanted it all over.

After all, what was a war without a casualty?


	25. 21 Grieve

21 Grieve

Steve felt vastly conflicted as he woke up in the morning, feeling no less exhausted and drained from the previous day. He sat in bed and considered how he felt, staring at the ceiling and wishing he didn't have to deal with it all.

While on the one hand, he was suffocating and sinking, he wanted to talk and he needed to talk and he wanted to not be alone anymore in the pain he was drowning in. He just hated to be alone. However, it was also that same fear that stopped him again from speaking.

Because Steve _spoke_ to Sharon. He started to open up to her, he started to be honest, tried to convey how hurt he felt, how exhausted, always in pain, but she hadn't understood and she had _left him_. Steve didn't love Sharon and while he didn't want to be alone, he could deal with her leaving. But he knew there were people he couldn't deal with watching leave and if trying to share his pain would make them walk out of his life, it wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth it.

But either way, he realized, he would be entirely alone.

Even with Bucky, he was alone because alone isn't just a presence of a person. Alone is not having anyone to share your pain, alone is having no one around you know or understand and Steve was already alone in that way. But at least he hadn't watched Bucky leave because he knew he couldn't live through that.

"I heard about Sharon," Bucky said when Steve picked up the phone and said hello. "I'm sorry." Steve frowned and rubbed his hair, staring at the ground.

"Don't be," he said. "I'm okay."

"You sure?" Bucky said and Steve shifted his weight.

"Yeah," he said. "And besides, I don't want to date anyone that points guns at you, Buck. Why didn't you mention that?"

"There were more important things to discuss at the time," Bucky replied. "As much as she was getting under my skin, I had higher priorities." Like Steve. Like suicide. Like suffocating.

"Oh," Steve said. "Course." Then, after a pause, Bucky continued.

"Just how pointless would it be to ask if you wanted to talk about it," Bucky said and Steve could hear something of a smile from the other end of the telephone. He wished they didn't have to use the telephone so often. He didn't particularly like the telephone, not when he could see someone face to face. Sometimes, the phone gave him a false sense of togetherness and when he hung up, he was alone again. Nevertheless, he laughed a little and shuffled his feet.

"Pretty pointless," he said back quietly.

"Would you at least tell me why?" Bucky said wearily. "Why you refuse to open up to me?" Steve sucked in a breath and ground his teeth and regretted how he responded.

"Tell me why you hurt yourself," Steve said.

"What?" Bucky said.

"You know what I'm talking about," Steve said. "You don't have scars or wounds, but I know you do." Bucky was silent for a long time.

"That has _nothing_ to do with this," he finally said, slowly, vehemence in his voice. Steve didn't reply. There was another silence where Steve thought he was probably supposed to say something, and then Bucky let out a fast, angry breath into the phone. "Damn you, Steve, I'm trying to help you!" And before Steve could reply, not that he had anything to say anyway, Bucky hung up, or else he had thrown and broken the phone because he was prone to doing that, but either way, Steve pulled the phone away from his face and frowned at it because Bucky was gone.

Late, late that night, however, he received another call, and this time, Bucky was at his door with red eyes and Steve could tell he was trembling, his whole body, his hair mussed like he had been sleeping and a desperate, hollow look in his face. Steve ushered him inside quickly and sat him on the couch, surrounded by blankets and pillows and Steve sat with him and waited patiently until Bucky spoke.

"They're gone," Bucky said quietly. Steve nodded.

"Hydra's gone," he replied. Bucky took in a long, slow breath and nodded with Steve and Steve asked. "Was it-"

"Nightmares," Bucky finished in a whisper. Then, "if they're gone, shouldn't they be… Shouldn't they be _gone_?" He said and Steve looked at him and wished he knew what to say, what to do.

Of course, this all went back to him, in the end. If he could have protected Bucky like Bucky would have protected him. If he had done what he'd died to do and really wiped Hydra out. He wished he could go back in time and make things right.

They sat there for a long time and Steve was almost beginning to fall asleep, his head against the back of the couch, warm amid the pile of quilts, until Bucky spoke again.

"It's," he said between long breaths. "Getting… Better. Really, it is."

"That's good," Steve said. "That's great." And Bucky looked over at him, pain under the blankness in his face, pain filling the hollowness of his stare.

"Is it getting any better for you?" He asked.

"I don't see Hydra, Buck," Steve replied, even though he knew that wasn't quite what Bucky was asking. Bucky looked at him.

"You told me once that you had nightmares, too," he said and Steve saw something familiar in Bucky's face, something he saw in his own heart time and time and time again. It was the aloneness. It was the need to share in your pain with someone, to not be alone in it.

Why, Steve remembered saying once. Why can't we grieve together.

He didn't want to talk, but suddenly, it wasn't about him anymore. Suddenly, he needed to talk simply because Bucky needed to hear.

Steve took a deep breath and looked forward and shook his head slowly. The water line above his head sunk around him and for a while, he wasn't choking, but it still hurt to breathe.

"No," he said. "No, it hasn't gotten any better."

"Is it every night?" Bucky asked.

"Are yours?" Steve asked and Bucky considered this and shook his head.

"Not anymore," he said and Steve grew tense simply because he hated to admit it, hated to admit everything.

"Mine are," he said. "For the most part."

"How do you get any sleep?" Bucky asked and Steve looked down at the ground and shrugged.

"I don't need a lot of sleep," he said. "And I just learn to deal with it."

"I'm sorry, Steve," Bucky said and Steve took a deep breath, leaning over on his knees and scrubbing his face with both hands.

"Thanks," he said.

They sat there for a good long time after that, silent, both slowly falling back asleep, but Steve was thinking, his mind racing as he considered what had just happened.

Why can't we grieve together? It meant so much to him. He didn't think he quite knew the answer anymore.

"Hey Buck," Steve said quietly and Bucky's eyes opened slowly and he shifted.

"Mhmm," he said. "Yeah?"

"I tried to say something," Steve admitted. "Once. Twice. To Sharon." Bucky looked at him.

"What happened?" He asked.

"She walked out," Steve said and Bucky's eyes hardened. "So that's why. At least, right now. You asked earlier, why I don't… I don't... That's why." Bucky considered this and nodded slowly. Then he looked Steve in the eyes.

"I'm not going to walk out," Bucky said. "I'm not gonna do that to you." Steve just looked at the ground and swallowed.

"I couldn't watch you leave," he said and he couldn't raise his voice above a whisper because it hurt to speak so honestly.

He always used to think he was such an honest person, but now it hurt him so bad to be honest, he wasn't sure who he was anymore.

"You don't have to," Bucky said. "You'll never have to. I don't know any other way to say it. I'm not going to leave you. I'm with you to the end of the line." Steve looked over at Bucky and couldn't speak because he was choking up and Bucky mustered a teasing smile, gentle. "You're stuck with me. Forever."

"Thank you," Steve said quietly, when he could, and Bucky just nodded.

"What are friends for," he said.


	26. 22 Truth

22 Truth

Here's a fun fact: it's impossible to un-love someone. Not in an instant. Not in a day. Sometimes, not for two whole years.

By extension, it's impossible undo the domino effect it starts in you, that selfless love for someone else. Sharon was realizing this by degrees and she wasn't happy with it. She did not like caring for Steve Rogers, for feeling the hurt in her heart when he looked at her with pleading eyes and said, I'm sorry.

And what else was she supposed to do? She wanted to find someone who had more to offer her than apologies. She owed it to herself.

But she couldn't stop thinking about it. It sat in her mind and refused to budge, just kept playing before her eyes over and over and over. But she had come to a conclusion, even before she walked out of his door. It was simple. Steve didn't love her and she wasn't good enough for him.

There it was. The bare, honest truth. The truth that she'd never wanted to face before. Sharon did not live up to the calibre of a man like Steve, she wasn't on his level of solid goodness and humanity. And it hurt, that knowledge, for maybe an hour, before she decided that she was going to do something about it because Sharon Carter was many things and a moper was not one of them. Steve deserved someone like him, someone who was honest and good and, quite frankly, inspiring, and if she wasn't that good, then she _would_ be.

And in the end, she decided, it wouldn't matter whether Steve accepted her or not because regardless, she wanted to be someone Steve would be proud of. She wanted to be that kind of person because with or without Steve's love, that kind of person was worth being and she was doing this for herself.


	27. 22 and a half ---

Make no mistake, Steve mourned. In his alone, in his depression, before Bucky was alive again, Steve mourned him. He mourned everyone. He mourned Peggy, he mourned the Howling Commandos, he mourned Howard Stark, he mourned New York in the 40s. He had no closure. He had no funeral. In fact, no one really recognized his mourning, either. They didn't understand, because how could they? Steve didn't expect them to, as he gave up trying to drink and instead, wallowed in his sadness. He didn't _have_ friends anymore, he knew. Just acquaintances and Captain America fans. So he mourned his relationships turned to dust and his life, gone haywire, and sat in his devastating aloneness to consider his meaninglessness and his survivor's guilt, and let it eat away at his very heart until the guilt, well…

The guilt destroyed him.


	28. 23 Peggy

23 Peggy

It's been said before. It's impossible to un-love someone.

Not in an instant.

Not in a day.

Sometimes, not for two whole years.

Steve never wanted to un-love Peggy and deep inside him, he still didn't want to because he was still mourning, but he knew it was something he had to do, like it or not. He had to move on.

Steve was in the habit of visiting Peggy often, even though she forgot him the moment he left. He just hated the thought of her sitting alone on a bed until her death because she had been his friend and she deserved so much better. He sent her flowers and cards he drew himself, he sat with her and talked until she was tired. He visited with Sharon sometimes, or, he used to, and just put forth a lot of effort to make sure Peggy was happy. But he still didn't know how to get over her, how to be happy without her.

Then again, he didn't know how to be happy regardless, so maybe the problem was bigger than just Peggy Carter.


	29. 23 and a half ---

It's a little known fact that there are two kinds of alone. The first is, of course, to be entirely alone and to be surrounded by no one. This is the stereotypical alone. This is the alone that most people mistake to be the only kind. The second kind, however, is the least recognized and the least understood and absolutely and completely the most devastating. It is to be alone in a crowded room. It is to be singled out in a group. It is to be the one person of your kind amongst millions of others and no one knows you and no one understands you and no one is like you

and you

are all

alone.

Steve had been alone for a very long time, before Bucky's miraculous return, before Natasha opened herself up to him and offered to be his friend. He felt isolated. He ate dinner by himself. He had no one to talk to. He had no one to share his pain. There was not one person in the entire world that knew Steve for Steve, knew him before Captain America, knew him with the ups and the downs, knew him when he was angry and when he was depressed and when he was happy, knew him inside out like a puzzle piece. He met new people and made new friends but nothing and I mean nothing could replace the bonds and the friendships he mourned for for two excruciatingly long years all alone. And oh, it hurt. It burned.

The alone destroyed him.


	30. 24 VA

24 VA

Steve visited the VA and stood again in the doorway and listened to Sam Wilson work magic. He smiled and greeted each member of the group warmly and Steve didn't think he noticed him, standing there in the door, but that was okay because he only needed to hear.

They talked about how they were doing, how they were feeling, and Steve became enthralled in their stories and their experiences because suddenly, he wasn't the only one still up until four AM with flashbacks and he wasn't alone with the guilt of knowing he was still alive. Steve felt a barrage of emotions. These people spoke the words he'd been thinking and feeling for a long time. It was as if he'd said it himself.

"I don't want to burden my family with these feelings," one person said and Steve found himself taking an actual step into the room.

"You have to keep telling yourself you're not a burden," Sam responded gently. "They're your family and they love you no matter what."

"Everything's my fault," someone else said and Steve inched into the back of the room closer.

"That's absolutely not true," Sam said fiercely. "You can't let guilt destroy you."

"I'm never happy anymore," and Steve found an empty row in the very back, sat down, leaned forward.

"That's what you have us for," Sam replied. "Let us remind you how to be happy."

The people at the VA impressed Steve too because he was partly bewildered by them. There was a curiosity there because as much as these people were like him, so much like him, they weren't because they talked about it, almost as though they weren't ashamed. Was it possible? To not feel ashamed? To not feel endlessly guilty? And then Steve felt bitter resentment because if they were okay, how come he had to feel so ashamed? Why must he suffer and suffocate, why must he take that blame, for everything, take the responsibility for every single bad thing and it crushed him, it stole his very breath, he was so guilty even simply for feeling.

But Sam was a miracle in that room, he was a beam of sunshine and Steve clung to his words, soaking them up as the other attendees at the VA spoke the words Steve didn't know how to draw out of his own heart.

I feel so alone. All the time. Even when I'm with people.

"I understand. You have to start opening up. You have friends here," Sam said gently.

Right when I think I'm doing better, I just get worse again.

"I know it's frustrating, but it's okay and you are doing better," Sam replied.

I'm depressed. I don't know what to do.

Sam sat back in his chair and was quiet for a moment and Steve leaned forward on his knees and listened hard.

"When I first came back," Sam began to say. "I was in a bad place. It was hard to see a meaning to life, after all I'd seen. I thought I'd rather be dead because I wasn't happy and people I loved were dead. But guess what?" Sam offered a smile and paused, lifting his hands. "Things got better. I got happier. I learned to live."

"How do you do that?" The VA member asked quietly and Steve scrubbed his face with his hands, up and down, taking a breath and leaning over his knees, listening with everything he had.

"You just keep living," Sam said. "You keep going, even when it's hard, because I know you can and because there's a light at the end of the tunnel. And you find the things that make everything worth it and you want a hint? The things that make everything worth it are the people in your life. It's all about them, always. You find those people that you love and that love you back and you cling to them because your very life depends on it and they'll carry you through it. It's the people that matter, in the end. It always is."

The meeting closed and Steve didn't wait for Sam to find him. He slipped out the backdoor and took every word Sam had spoken to heart, remembered the way they'd touched him and the way he'd felt for once not deeply alone.


	31. 25 Call

25 Call

That night, Steve wanted to try again. He wanted to be heard and he wanted to be unashamed, like the people at the VA. He wanted to talk and he felt a burning in him, a powerful, painful building, like screaming lungs underwater, but he didn't know what to say or how to say it and he remained in a state of mental turmoil for the entire night, conflicted and truly at war with himself.

And of course, there remained that part of him that so desperately feared talking. That part that told him that he was a burden and he couldn't prove himself because he had nothing good to prove and that part that told him that he had to stay quiet or the people he loved would turn their backs on him. But he tried to remain strong, tried to fight it, tried to learn how to put into words the pain he felt, the way he didn't know how to live and live with himself and live happy. He just didn't know. He was miserable.

Late, late into the night, Steve still couldn't sleep and he still felt suffocating and an overwhelming sense of worthlessness that pierced him right through, back again to sickly Steve, desperate to prove that he was just as good as anyone else. It was exhausting, but he couldn't close his eyes. He felt terrible, he felt that feeling again of wanting it to end and he knew it was at least five in the morning, but he called Bucky.

"'Lo," Bucky mumbled tiredly into the phone.

"I'm sorry, I just feel…," Steve said. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have woken you."

"It's fine, it's fine," Bucky replied. "It's okay. What were you saying? What's wrong?"

"I feel awful," Steve said. "I don't know how else to describe it."

"S'okay," Bucky replied, still slurring his words in tiredness. "I can help you, it's okay."

"Are you sure you're not mad?" Steve said. "It's five twenty-two."

"Wow, I really slept in today, didn't I?" Bucky joked and Steve couldn't smile. "I'm not mad."

"Do you want to go back to sleep?" Steve asked.

"I want you to tell me what's wrong," Bucky said and he paused. "I said I wasn't going to leave you. I meant it."

"You don't deserve to be woken up in the middle of the night," Steve said.

"Steve," Bucky said and his voice grew determined now. "I want you to answer me honestly here. Why did you call me." Steve's throat grew dry and he tried to swallow.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Steve, for the love," Bucky cried.

"I want it to end," Steve admitted finally. "And that scared me." There was a pause on the other end of the phone.

"End," Bucky said. "_End_ end?"

"I should be dead," Steve said. "I was supposed to die."

"How do you figure that?" Bucky asked quietly and Steve found that he didn't know how to explain. How could he tell Bucky that all those years when they both fought tooth and nail for his life, he'd been looking forward to his inevitable death with so much fear, that it should have happened because that was simply the nature of Steve's life and to be alive now was unnatural. He should be dead.

"Do you remember when I was nineteen and everything was killing me?" Steve said quietly.

"Like it was yesterday," Bucky replied hollowly. "Steve, I don't understand, you fought so hard to live then."

"But I could have died," Steve said.

"But you didn't," Bucky said.

"No," Steve said. "No, but I could have. By all accounts, I _should_ have."

"You were stronger than you thought you were," Bucky replied.

"There was a girl we went to school with that died of tuberculosis," Steve said.

"Yeah," Bucky said.

"I was sicker than her on a good day," Steve said.

"That's not true," Bucky said.

"I should be dead," Steve said. "And then, I went to war. Should have died there. Then I crashed a plane into the Arctic. I'm alive and it doesn't make sense. I'm living on borrowed time."

These words, they didn't hurt so bad. Steve knew words that hurt worse, words like, if I had died, I wouldn't be and have been the burden I am to you. Words like, I'm just tired and I fill no purpose in the world and you can be so happy, just you and Natasha. But Steve felt them cling to his heart and sink their claws into his lungs and he wasn't ready to say them, not yet. So he said what he could and felt just a little better, having admitted them, having taken a big, deep breath of air that he hadn't tasted in years, that he wasn't suffocating anymore. And he kept the words that hurt worse and closed them up inside and said to himself, later. Later.

"So you," Bucky said and swallowed. "Do you… _Want_ to be dead, then?"

"No?" Steve said. "Yes? I'm tired. Sometimes, I just want it over, I'm exhausted, but I… I don't know. I feel like I shouldn't be here."

"Okay," Bucky said. "Well, come open the door and let me in and we can talk about this."

"What?" Steve said.

"I'm at your door," Bucky replied. "I walked here. I'm just in sweatpants and a jacket and I'm freezing, open your door."

Steve felt stunned. He hadn't even heard Bucky's shuffling behind the phone. And he suddenly felt a wave of guilt knock him in the chest because he'd gotten Bucky up out of bed, Bucky who didn't sleep much anyway, Bucky who just needed things to be normal and comfortable for once, Bucky who didn't need his whining a boon on his life.

"You shouldn't have come," Steve said.

"I'd like to remind you that I have a metal arm that generates no body heat whatsoever and this hallway might as well be an ice box," Bucky replied. "I know it's a sauna in there and I'm missing out." Steve hurried to the door, his phone still pressed to his face, and unlocked the door and there was Bucky, just as he said, in pajamas, shivering, holding his cell phone. After the guilt, Steve felt the gratitude and he pulled Bucky inside and wrapped him in a hug and Bucky hugged him back fiercely.

"You don't have to be alone," Bucky said to him. "Okay?"

"Okay," Steve said.

"Thank you," Bucky said. "For _once_ letting me help you, thank you." And Steve only squeezed him tighter because _he _should be saying thank you; he had been so alone and he didn't deserve having this friend who was better than anything Steve could ever ask for. He couldn't speak it. He closed it up inside himself with the words that sunk their claws into his heart and told it quietly, later, settled it in with the rest of the mountains of emotions he couldn't express in words out loud.

Bucky led Steve inside the apartment then, instead of the other way around, shutting the door behind him and walking with Steve back to his bedroom, sitting on his bed with him in the dark. It reminded Steve of years ago, when they lived together and Bucky watched over Steve with a determined and loyal diligence, taking care of him and being just kind enough to leave him his dignity whenever he could. Steve felt the guilt, the guilt that was sucking away his happiness. Further proof that he had been a burden, that he still was burdensome.

"_I_ think you should be here," Bucky said now, sitting on his bed and facing him in the dark, his jacket snug around him and his arms folded loosely around his chest. "And I'm glad you're here."

"But I can't be," Steve said. "I can't be glad about it."

"Why?" Bucky said. "Who do you think resents your survival?"

Don't you? How could you not, I've never been able to be a good friend to you.

Steve fell silent and looked down and took in a breath and then shook his head.

"I don't know," he whispered and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know."

"Well," Bucky said, shifting and looking off at the window. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad enough for the both of us. I'm glad enough for anyone who might think differently, as freaking wrong as they would be." Steve didn't know what to say and he turned around and swung his legs down to the floor and leaned over his knees and put his face in his hands. Bucky was quiet for a moment before he moved and stood up off the bed, looking down at Steve. "You need to lay down," he said and Steve looked up at him. "Come on, lay down. Stop thinking this garbage, alright, just try to sleep, okay?"

"Don't leave," Steve begged before he could stop himself.

"I'll be right here," Bucky said reassuringly and then he sat down on the other side of the bed again and stole himself a pillow from Steve's side. "Just don't you dare roll over on me or I'll shove you right off the bed," he threatened playfully, trying to lighten the mood, trying to offer Steve a smile and Steve felt such relief wash over him because for once, he wouldn't be alone in the dark all night. He would be okay. It was as though a weight was lifted off his shoulders and Steve collapsed onto his side of the bed.

They both lay there in the dark and Steve didn't know about Bucky, but he still couldn't sleep and finally, after a while, he couldn't be sure whether it was a minute or an hour, he turned to Bucky's dark form, still and just inches away from him, and tried to speak.

"I'm sorry I let you fall," Steve whispered hoarsely and Bucky rolled over and studied him, the both of them made out of sadness.

"I forgive you," he said back.

"Okay," Steve said.

"Sleep," Bucky said.

"Okay," Steve said again and laid on his back and looked at the ceiling.

Bucky slept after an hour or so, curled up tightly on the other side of Steve's bed, his arms wrapped around his torso like he was trying to hold everything in, his knees up close to him and he looked tense, even in sleep, but his face was relaxed and Steve watched through the night as he slowly let go and relaxed entirely until he was sleeping so soundly that Steve could hear his slow breaths and he was sprawled across Steve's mattress, his legs out and his arms lax across the sheets. And Steve sat there almost the entire night, contemplating how Bucky saved him then and saved him now, had always saved him, had come back from the dead to _save him_ until Steve felt so tired that his eyes stung and he finally sunk into sleep, comfortable for once. Not alone for once. Feeling safe, feeling loved, feeling almost happy and so entirely relieved. Feeling so close to being saved, being dragged out of the alley again because this time, he didn't have the other guy on the ropes, this time, the other guy was himself and he was taking a real hit. But Bucky was coming and Bucky would save him.

And it was the best sleep Steve had gotten in weeks.


	32. 26 Death

26 Death

Steve slept for a long time and Bucky didn't want to wake him when he heard the phone ring in the kitchen and, assuming it was Natalia, Bucky rolled himself off Steve's bed to answer it.

"Hello," Bucky said in Russian and he expected to hear Natalia's voice respond to him, but instead, he heard someone he didn't recognize respond with a confused, "Hello?"

"Oh," Bucky said and switched back into English. "Oh, I'm sorry, hello. Who is this?"

"I'm from the DC Nursing Home and Care Center," the woman on the other line said. "Is this Steve Rogers' residence?" Bucky looked back over his shoulder to where he had left Steve's bedroom door open and Steve slept on heavily, hopefully for once sleeping well, and frowned.

"Yes, it is," Bucky said. "He's resting right now, but can I take a message?"

"Mr. Rogers was on a list compiled by the Carter family to call in the case of Peggy Carter's death," the woman said and Bucky stopped, stunned.

"Peggy's…," Bucky said into the phone, trailing off in shock.

"I'm afraid so, sir," the woman said.

"When did she-," Bucky said and stopped and swallowed.

"Mrs. Carter passed on last night in her sleep," the voice replied. "It was very peaceful."

"Oh," Bucky said quietly. "I'll let him know." The woman said a polite goodbye and Bucky mumbled something after her and then set the phone back down and looked over at Steve's door again as everything sank in.

This was the worst thing that could have happened. Steve would be crushed, more so than he already was, and Bucky was scared of how he'd respond. He knew Steve was strong enough to handle the blow, he knew he could do it, but Steve might not know and it would take a lot of pain and a lot of help for him to realize and come out of this on top. After all, Bucky thought, he's nearly killed himself once. Steve didn't need anything else pushing him to wait for the ice to crack.

In a panic, Bucky dialed Natalia's number. Of course, she was already awake and Bucky didn't let her answer, just started talking because this was of dire importance.

"Peggy's dead," Bucky said. "She was Steve's old girlfriend. He doesn't know yet, he's going to be devastated. "

"Oh, no," Natalia said.

"What do we do?" Bucky said.

"I'll be right over," Natalia replied and she was about to say more, but Bucky stopped her and spoke quietly into the phone.

"I'm scared for him," Bucky said. "Especially now, I'm scared." Natalia's voice softened.

"I know," she said. "I am, too. We all are."

"It's just like when…," Bucky said and stopped and tried again. "We were kids and there was always some new scare. I was always just sure he was going to die, he was sick."

"I know," Natalia said quietly and Bucky took a deep breath and pushed his hair back with his free hand and pressed his mouth together.

"He's sick again," Bucky said. "I was so relieved when he'd never be sick again, but I didn't think…" Bucky blinked fast, trying to avoid emotions falling in on him. "This is so much scarier than seeing him physically ill. I can't just go… Sell something and buy medicine, I can't just… I'm at a loss. I'm… I-" Bucky let out a fast breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Shh," Natalia said comfortingly. "Don't worry about it, don't upset yourself. He'll be fine. I'm coming over and we can deal with this together."

"I love you," Bucky said quickly into the phone because it was his love and his gratitude and his desperation inside each word and he could hear the sad half-smile he was so used to on Natalia's face.

"I love you, James. Just hang in there for five minutes," she said and hung up and Bucky dropped the phone back onto the counter and crossed the room to collapse on the couch in a heap of fear and pain and stifled tears to try and pull himself together before Natalia got there.

This was a malady Bucky couldn't cure. This was a danger Bucky couldn't protect him from. I would even trade places with you, Bucky thought and closed his eyes. I just never wanted you to have to face death again. And this, this. This is so much worse.


	33. 26 and a half ---

This is the aftermath. This is a building, collapsed to the ground, a mess of rubble and settling dust. This is a Steve Rogers _destroyed_. This is a Steve gutted and warped by pain, made infinitely sadder by it, changed and made forever more desperate. Bucky saw that, began to feel it in the weight of Steve's stare, began to hear it in the words he didn't say.

Steve wasn't alone anymore and there was finally someone there who understood him entirely and perfectly, inside and out, beginning to the end of the line loved him, but that didn't make everything all better. Steve was still rubble; destroyed. And Bucky, with his intimate knowledge of pain and his wealth of knowledge of Steve Rogers, knew with a certainty that if he would do anything with the life given back to him, he would rebuild his best friend, build him back up from the ground if he had to, throw his arm over his shoulder and lead him, because thats what friends do and that's what Bucky knew best.

The guilt destroyed Steve, and the aloneness, but damn it all if Bucky wouldn't build him back up.


	34. 27 Time

27 Time

Natalia arrived minutes later and embraced Bucky, who was still at a loss, and Bucky told her all about Peggy and how enamoured Steve had been with her during the war and he knew there were gaps in what he remembered, things that had been irrevocably burned right out of him, but he knew what he needed to know and Natalia listened to everything he told her.

"There'll be a funeral," Natalia said.

"How are we going to tell him," Bucky said.

"Gently," Natalia said and she frowned and sighed. "And we can't leave him alone."

"I know," Bucky said and then he looked at Natalia, who always knew all the answers, whom he had long since been awed by, and asked, "How? How do we heal him?" Natalia looked down from Bucky's face and bit her lip and shook her head.

"I'm not sure," she said and Bucky was awash with grief.

Steve woke an hour or so later and was surprised to find Natasha and Bucky in his kitchen, trying to pull together something for him to eat.

"Don't worry about it," Bucky said when Steve pressed and set a plate of eggs in front of him. "Natalia's making chocolate chip pancakes, but somehow I doubt you'll be full." Steve suspiciously began eating Bucky's scrambled eggs, eyeing him.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Can't a guy make his friend breakfast every once in a while?" Bucky said and his voice was light, but he was turning his face away from Steve and there was a heaviness about his shoulders and Steve knew there was something wrong. He felt a shift in the air, in the tone, and everything was suspicious. He was beginning to lose his appetite.

"What is it," Steve said.

"Steve," Natasha said, almost a warning. Slow down.

"What's wrong?" Steve demanded. Bucky finally looked over at him and his face was pleading.

"I'm so sorry," he said quietly and Steve was afraid.

"What," Steve said. "Is wrong."

"Peggy passed away, Steve," Bucky whispered and silence crashed down on Steve like a tidal wave and wiped him out, silence came roaring down the halls like a violent flood, silence collapsed in on him like a rotten building, in a heap of rubble and dust.

He stood there.

Frozen.

"What," he said.

"She died last night," Bucky said. "In her sleep. They called this morning and I thought it was Natalia so I picked it up and then they told me…"

Why, Steve thought in a sudden, desperate, pain-filled plea. Why.

"Because," Bucky struggled. Had he spoken out loud? "Because it was her time," he said. "She'd lived her life. She died peacefully, Steve." Steve frowned.

"It was her time?" He said and Bucky just looked at him like he didn't know what to say.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it was." That was ludicrous.

"What does that even mean?" Steve said. It was her _time_? That meant nothing! Steve had seen _his_ time, he'd watched it pass by. Again and again and again it was his time. So why did Peggy have to die? "It was her time," Steve muttered scoffingly.

Bucky approached him and gently extended his hand and the metal glittered and he said, "It's alright, it's going to be okay."

"It's not fair," Steve replied breathlessly and Bucky took his hand back and then, after a second, wrapped Steve up in another hug and Steve hugged him back but he felt numb.


	35. 28 Mourning

28 Mourning

The next day, Steve sat in his living room and took his sketchbook and drew Peggy from memory all day until he had filed pages with her face and the way she looked at him like no one ever had. And he wept bitterly.

_It was her time_. Steve knew Bucky meant to be comforting, but he had no idea how his words sounded to Steve, Steve who had faced his own time to die and made the whole concept utterly meaningless as it slipped into the distant past. It was her time.

But the longer Steve dwelled on it, the more he began to understand what Bucky had been trying to say and he thought that maybe it was selfish of him to want her back because unlike Steve, Peggy Carter had truly lived a long time, lived a full life. Maybe she was at peace. Maybe she was at rest. Steve was very nearly envious.

The pain wasn't entirely new, however, or the mourning, and Steve began to realize that their relationship had died a long time, years ago, like Sharon had said, and he was still clinging to something, clinging to Peggy on her deathbed and the way he had loved her with his whole heart. Everything hurt.

The funeral was in five days. Steve remained despondent.

Meanwhile, Bucky was desperately trying to put together a plan with Natasha.

"You spend breakfast and lunch with him," Bucky said. "I'll be there for dinner. What should we do about the night?"

"He could come over here," Natalia suggested. "You could go over there. We could call Sam."

"We'll _have_ to call Sam," Bucky replied. "At least eventually. Maybe we could ask him what to do about the night, see how he feels about it?"

"Okay," Natalia said. "What about tomorrow?"

"Get Sam to pick him up for a breakfast or something, get him out of the house," Bucky said.

"I'll text him," Natalia said and brought out of her phone. They carried on like that, planning and blocking out time and preparing Operation: Don't Let Steve be Alone. They worked together with Sam, struggling to pull something together and Bucky was scared, he was scared even of Steve being alone then as it was because it was dangerous and Steve was emotional and suicidal and he'd just lost Peggy and Bucky knew this fear. He knew what it felt like to have a real worry that he'd return to Steve and find him dead and now he was feeling that again. Never had Bucky felt so connected with his memories so fast, but he did then and he didn't like it. So Bucky tried to plan, tried to make sure Steve always had a friend on hand, a vigilant eye, a listening ear. Steve would sit in his apartment and stew, he would fester all alone and lead everyone to believe as best as he could that he was fine and then Bucky would turn around one day and he would be drowning himself or jumping off of something or he would find him with a bullet in his head and Bucky shuddered, swallowed, clenched his fists and tried to force his mind from the horrifying image, and unfortunately common one, of Steve dead.

But he was becoming desperate. Bucky had three people to choose from, being himself, Natalia, and Sam, and he still had times where Steve might be alone and vulnerable. They didn't have enough people.

"Well, what do we do?" Sam said over speaker phone. "We can't be with him twenty-four hours of the day."

"But if we don't…," Bucky said and fell quiet because he didn't want to say it, didn't have to say it. Natalia, standing in the kitchen with him, her arms folded against the counter, looked down and made a face.

"Even if we could," Natalia said, shaking her head. "He wouldn't want us to. He'd feel bad, or we'd get on each others nerves, and just make everything worse."

They sat there in silence for a moment, thinking heavy thoughts and considering. Bucky came up with a terrible idea.

"We can," he began to suggest and made a face, rubbing his hand and looking down. "We can ask Sharon." Natalia looked stunned.

"You know we can't do that, James," she said, leaning across the counter at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Maybe we can," Bucky said. "Just, not for very long. In-between our shifts, until we can find someone better, I think-"

"Hold on, wait," Sam said. "Wait, Sharon as in 'pulls guns on family holidays' Sharon?" Natalia raised an eyebrow at Bucky and Bucky pressed his mouth together.

"Yeah," he said. "That one."

"I don't think I could give you every reason why that is the worst idea you've ever had, James," Natalia said.

"I'm not asking her to work with me!" Bucky cried. "I don't expect her to want to help _me_. I do expect her to want to help Steve."

"He broke up with her," Natalia said.

"What the hell?!" Sam said loudly, trying to catch up.

"There was no bad blood between them!" Bucky said. "Not really. They just ended it and I'm willing to bet she'll still want to help him."

"Even if she does," Natalia said. "Who says she's really safe? And who says _Steve_ will want her help?"

"Look," Bucky said. "I don't like it either, but the way I see it, we don't have very many options. If he's not okay-"

"He won't say anything," Natalia said.

"But I can tell," Bucky replied. "And I'll pull her out. I know it's a bad idea, okay? But it's a last resort. If I can help it, she'll spend as little time with him as possible." There was a long silence as Sam and Natalia considered this and Natalia looked at him with conflict in her eyes.

"I trust you," she said to him dubiously. Bucky shook his head and threw up a hand.

"She might not even say yes," he said. "It's a _last resort_."

"I guess," Sam said. "What other choice do we have?"

"I trust you," Natalia said again, looking into Bucky's eyes and raising her eyebrows and Bucky smiled a little at her until she started to smile back and Bucky touched her hand, set on the counter, and leaned over to reach her face and kiss her. "For all your terrible ideas, Barnes," Natalia said through a smile, close to his face, her hand on the back of his neck and Bucky couldn't stop another smile and he could smell her perfume. "At least you're one hell of a kisser."

Sam cleared his throat loudly on the speakerphone and Bucky pulled back, smothering loud laughter.

"We've got a plan," Natalia said to Sam, picking up her phone, her eyes flicking to Bucky and her half-smile spreading. "We'll see you soon, Sam."

"Bye, Nat," Sam said and Natalia closed the call and Bucky was already on the other side of the counter, his hands on her waist, and they tried very hard through the kisses and the flirting to make each other forget that Steve was dying, but from the inside out this time, and he was destroyed, and how awful it was to watch.


	36. 29 Barnes

29 Barnes

It was Barnes' face Sharon saw when she opened her apartment door and she stopped, the door half-open, and scowled, becoming instantly tense with fear. In her mind, she remembered Steve beaten bloody and this man screaming at him in something that almost sounded like Russian and he was a threat and Sharon felt the knife strapped to her arm underneath her sleeve just to be sure it was there, and she was about to shut the door in his face before he reached out and grabbed the door and held it just open. Sharon's mouth dropped open and she tried to wrench the door away from him, but he didn't budge.

"Super-strength," he said with something that sounded like a small laugh, some sort of explanation, and Sharon put her shoulders up and glared, half in fear and half in rage, until Barnes let go, holding up his hands, and took a step back. Sharon began to slam the door and, "Don't!" He cried. "Don't, stop. Please?"

Sharon was afraid, but she was also curious, and as was her nature, curiosity won out, and she inched the door open just a little further and stuck her head out.

"What do you want?" She said. Barnes looked at her and his stare was horrifying. He had dead eyes. She shuddered.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," Barnes said and smiled gently at her, but she couldn't take the weight of his heavy and piercing stare. His eyes were striking and sickening, hypnotic, and she looked away from him, leaning now on the doorframe. "Can we start over?"

"There's no such thing as starting over," Sharon said. "What's done is done." Barnes looked at her and she thought she heard him swallow.

"Well I, uh, I have to disagree," he said. Sharon pursed her lips and she would have slammed the door again then, she should have, and logic and curiosity warred it out inside her until she decided that she wanted to hear more from this dead-eyed winter killer because he had to have an ulterior motive. Barnes waited for a second until Sharon said nothing and he extended his right hand and smiled again. "My name is Bucky," he said. "Steve and I are friends." Sharon looked at him, from his hand to his face, and her eyes narrowed.

"There is no such thing," she said. "As starting over." Barnes blinked and took his hand away. "Why are you here." Barnes sighed and looked at her, level now.

"I'm here because your aunt died," he said.

"And," Sharon replied.

"See," Barnes said. "It's about Steve." He shifted a little and looked around him. "Do we really have to do this in the hallway?"

"If you want to do it at all," Sharon said.

"Alright," Barnes said. "Steve is very… He's really… Not well. And I'm worried about him-"

"What do you mean, he's not well?" Sharon demanded and Barnes was beginning to glare. Sharon shifted her sleeve over her arm and the knife tied there.

"I mean these things, Peggy's death, it hits him hard," Barnes said. "He can't be alone and look, I'm just gonna get to the point because we clearly can't be friends right now, but," and Barnes began to speak in a hushed voice and Sharon leaned in closer. "But I'm worried about him taking his own life."

Sharon froze, confused, and it wasn't sinking in.

Steve? The Steve Rogers she knew? "So I'm going to spend a lot of time with him," Barnes continued. "And Natalia and Sam Wilson and we need your help." He took a deep breath. "I know you might say no, and I get that. I might want to say no to me, too, but I'm asking you for Steve's sake because we're both his friends. He needs our help."

Sharon was still having difficulty swallowing this information. She remembered distinctly Steve confiding in her, telling her he was unhappy, and she hadn't understood then, but it all sunk into her now and became obvious. Oh, how hadn't she realized?

Sharon pushed the door open further and leaned outward, folding her arms.

"You say I'll say no," she said. "But you're here. You think I might say yes."

"I think I'm incredibly, incredibly desperate," Barnes replied. "And I think you'd do a lot for Steve. So, I'm hoping."

"Huh," Sharon said.

"I wouldn't be here otherwise," Barnes said. "I wouldn't be trying to make nice with you otherwise." Sharon shrugged.

"No sense in that," she said. "What's done is done."

"As you've told me," Barnes said sarcastically and it was clear he was beginning to grow impatient. "Look, say yes, say no, at this point, I'm beginning to hope you say no and I'll just find anyone else, but will you do it or not?" Sharon frowned at the ground and then back up at Barnes.

"I'm not doing it for you," she said. Barnes threw up his hands.

"The gun you pointed at my forehead earlier could have told me that," he said. Sharon realized as volatile as the Winter Soldier was, as dangerous, she liked it better when he was emotional because then she didn't have to look at his dead eyes, staring at her like he could see right through her.

"I'm doing it for Steve," Sharon said.

"Okay," Barnes said and he was clenching his jaw and beginning to walk away. He turned his back. "I'll call you. Thanks."

"Winter Soldier," she called and the Barnes, halfway across the hall, whirled around and his entire body was tense. There was rage in his eyes. It had been building there.

"Don't call me that," he said. "Don't." She ignored him.

"Why would Steve…," she said and she didn't want to say it, certainly didn't want to call it across the hall, but Barnes understood and his shoulders fell in the slightest and she watched his dead eyes move to Steve's door and back again. He swallowed and wrapped his arms around himself and looked at her and shook his head.

"I don't know," he said. "But right now, right now, we just have to stop him." The Winter Soldier's shoulders fell further and he was staring at the carpet blankly. He let out a breath and Sharon shuddered and pulled herself back into her apartment a little.

"One day, he'll tell me," Barnes said quietly.


	37. 30

30

Of course, this was not the first time Steve was convinced that things would be better had he not been alive. He wasn't sure if he could pinpoint the first time he thought it, because it didn't seem abnormal to him and because he had thought it for so, so long.

He suggested it to Bucky only once, when they first got their apartment together and became roommates and Steve had yet again fallen ill and it was up to Bucky now and Bucky alone to bring him back from the brink. Steve could see it, he was exhausted. They both were, true, but Bucky shouldn't have to be. He shouldn't have to have those dark circles under his eyes and he shouldn't be only eating one meal a day and he shouldn't have to work for hours. It wasn't fair and Steve hated to see people sacrifice for him.

"Maybe you ought to just stop," Steve suggested once because he thought it sounded perfectly rational, and Bucky looked up from where he was across their tiny, one-room apartment, sitting on the couch, and looked confused.

"Stop what?" He said. "Sitting?" Steve sat up a little.

"Maybe you should let me die," he said and Bucky froze and sat there for a long time, staring at Steve. Steve stared back and eased himself back down a little, frowning at Bucky. "What? Stop giving me that look."

"That's not funny," Bucky said.

"I wasn't kidding," Steve said and Bucky brought his hands up to his face and looked away, stood up and sat back down, clearly disturbed. Steve watched him and it became obvious to him how much he had upset Bucky. "Okay, I didn't mean it," he said quietly and Bucky looked at him hard, blinking.

He didn't _want_ to die. Not then, not yet. He really, truly did not and he was scared of death and scared of dying on a sickbed and scared of proving everyone right, that he'd only been a burden and a waste and he was worthless. But he knew it was hard on Bucky, and Steve was tired. It was hard on him, it had been hard on his family, and the rational idea, maybe the most selfless idea, was that Steve should simply stop being. Then everyone would be happier, wouldn't they? Could Steve do that for Bucky?

Bucky was upset for the rest of the night and when he fell asleep on the other side of the one and only mattress they could afford, Steve realized that he could never say that again. It seemed like the only real option he had then, to die and leave everyone be, but he could never bring it up again. He could never tell Bucky about it. He was a burden on Bucky, and maybe he really _was_ just a waste of resources and energy, but no matter what, he couldn't scare Bucky again. Not on top of everything else. He might be a burden, but he sure as hell could suffer quietly if it made him less of a weight on the backs of the people he loved.


	38. 31 Pancakes

31 Pancakes

In the morning, Natasha brought Steve breakfast. He wasn't sure how she got in, but she was knocking on his bedroom door and brought in pancakes on a tray. Steve was lying on top of his sheets, his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like he had been for several hours. He glanced over at Natasha as she walked in and looked back up. He was grateful that Natasha didn't mention the red and swolleness of his eyes.

Natasha set the pancakes down on Steve's bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed next to him. She was quiet for a moment and Steve said nothing.

"James said you liked these," she said, of the breakfast, and Steve let out a slow breath and looked over at Natasha and then at her pancakes. Finally, he nodded.

"Why do you keep making me food," Steve said quietly, trying to avoid the way he knew his voice would break.

"We're a little afraid that if we don't do it, you won't eat," Natasha admitted.

"Hmm," Steve said and almost considered saying more, then stopped.

"Well," Natasha said, leaning over and nudging him in the ribs. "Come on. Sit up." Automatically, Steve pulled himself up and sat there. "Now come over here and eat something. You'll feel a little better, I promise." Steve pushed himself across the bed to sit next to Natasha and he took the tray from her. In truth, he was famished, but it was a dull hunger because next to the sharp pain in his heart, nothing else really seemed to matter. Steve ate Natasha's pancakes silently and gratefully. "I think we ought to get you out of the house today," Natasha said when Steve was nearly finished. He was still hungry, but he was used to pretending that he wasn't in order to not appear rude. Now, he was just too tired to eat more anyway.

"I, uh, I don't really want to," Steve said.

"I think it'll be good for you," Natasha encouraged. "Get your mind off of things."

"I'm going to stay here," Steve said and set the tray down on his bedside table again and scooted back up on his bed. "I'm not going anywhere." In truth, he didn't have the strength right now to fight and if Natasha had pressed, he would have given in, but she didn't press and Steve found himself staring at the ceiling once again. "Thank you for the breakfast," he added once the silence became too much.

"Of course," Natasha said. "It's the least I can do." Steve didn't say anything. Natasha pulled her legs up on Steve's bed and turned herself around to face him. "What more is there?" She said. "What can I do for you?" Steve shrugged his shoulders.

"I think the least you can do is also the most," he said.

"I don't believe that," Natasha said.

There was a long pause and Natasha brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them and sat there next to Steve until Steve looked over at her again and sat himself up a little. "I _am_ glad you're here," he said quietly. "That's what you can do. Just… I'm glad you're here." Natasha looked at him over her knees and her eyes were watering.

"Okay," she said.

For the next few days, Steve was constantly surrounded by people and friends and all of them tried to convince him to leave the apartment with them except for Bucky. Bucky seemed to understand. He was gentle and quiet and offered a protective and sentinel-like comfort, like he always had, and Steve rarely grew tired of his unassuming companionship.

A few days into this routine, Bucky approached Steve honestly.

"You know what we're doing here," he said matter-of-factly. Steve was silent for a moment, his pencil hesitating over another sketch of Peggy, then nodded.

"Yeah," he said and it was quiet again for a moment except for the scratch of Steve's pencil on his notepad. He thought he probably ought to stop drawing Peggy and torturing himself, but he could think of nothing but her and the way her eyes gleamed, the way her laugh had brought him so much joy, the way their relationship had fallen into ruin when everything changed. They were sitting on the couch, he and Bucky, in front of the silent TV, and Bucky leaned forward on his knees and looked over into Steve's face.

"Is it helping?" He asked and Steve hesitated again. He sat up, pulled himself away from his sketchbook, and looked up, blinking hard, then looked back down and his mouth turned upwards sadly as he looked over at Bucky, whose face was concerned. He nodded.

"Yeah," he said again and Bucky looked down and nodded to himself, then leaned back and patted his metal hand on Steve's shoulder comfortingly.

"Alright, good," he said. "I wanted to ask you, though, about something."

"What is it?" Steve said and sat up a little and turned to him as Bucky took his hand back.

"I want to make sure this is okay with you. I asked Sharon to help us out here a little," he said and Steve held his breath for a moment as emotions launched themselves at him and he had to process them all.

"You did?" He said and Bucky nodded.

"Not for very long," Bucky added. "Just here and there, to fill in the cracks if you need her. I know it's complicated and that's why I wanted to check with you, see if you're okay with it." Bucky looked down and rubbed his hand. "I just want to make sure you have someone to go to in case I'm not here, or you can't get to me. Just someone to go to."

"You approached her?" Steve said and Bucky nodded.

"I went right up and knocked on her door," he said and Steve was somewhat astonished.

"How many times did she threaten to kill you," Steve said and Bucky made a face and a sound that was almost like scoffing laughter.

"She behaved," Bucky reported. "For the most part. She's frustrating, but I take it she's a little bit warmer towards you. And she said she'd be willing to help, for your sake. Do you want her help?" Steve looked down at the floor and thought. Sharon was mourning Peggy too, and Steve didn't know if that was something that would potentially tie them together or drive them further apart. He didn't know what to expect from Sharon. And, of course, there was always the uncomfortable problem that the'd split up and hadn't talked since and Bucky's report about how she'd treated him was less than comforting.

But, Steve had to admit, she could be acceptable for small amounts of time, as a back-up, like Bucky had said. He didn't hate her, or resent her. And yes, it was complicated, but what in Steve's life wasn't?

So he wasn't entirely happy about it, but after a time, finally, Steve accepted and Bucky studied his face and then nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I'll let her know."


	39. 32 Funeral

32 Funeral

The funeral came quickly, because the days passed in a blur for Steve. He went through the motions, with Natasha's help getting dressed and she did his hair nice for him and Bucky joined them in his only good suit, his hands clasped behind his back and a solemn look on his face. They were about to leave, but Steve hesitated in the hallway upon seeing Sharon's door and it occurred to him to stop.

"What is it?" Bucky asked and Steve forced himself to knock on Sharon's door before he could tell himself to stop. Sharon opened the door after a while and her hair was tied back and she wore a veil, but Steve could see the redness of her eyes underneath the material. He could sense Bucky and Natasha's eyes on his back.

"Hey," Steve said gently.

"Hi," Sharon whispered, looking up at him. Steve glanced back towards Bucky and Natasha, waiting for him apprehensively, then turned back.

"You're all alone," he said to Sharon and Sharon looked behind her at her empty apartment and managed a smile and a shrug.

"It's fine," she said and Steve looked into her face and this time, he didn't see Peggy. This time, Steve saw himself.

"It's not," he replied and then offered her his arm. "Come with us," he said. "Don't be alone." Sharon looked at Steve and at his bent arm, extended to her, and he could see her withdrawing already.

"No, no," she began to say, shaking her head, and blonde hair began to fall in her face underneath the black tool of the veil separating them. "No, it's fine. I'll be there in just one minute, I'll see you there."

"Sharon," Steve said, dropping his arm. "You don't have to do this by yourself." Sharon looked down so he couldn't see her face anymore and let out a breath.

"_You_ may be scared of being alone," Sharon said pointedly, a pain settling behind the cruelty of her words. "But some of us have learned to get over it." Steve felt like he had been hit and suddenly, where there had been nothing but a veil between them, there rose a thick wall of barbed wire and Sharon glared at the floor. Steve felt himself take a step back with the weight of her words making him suddenly ashamed for feeling empathetic. "I'll see you at the funeral," Sharon finally said and shut the door and Steve swallowed and stood there, staring, his shoulders hunched forward, until Bucky took his arm back from Natasha and stepped forward to retrieve Steve, touching his shoulder lightly.

"Come on," Bucky said quietly. "Come on, you tried. That's all you can do, you tried."

The funeral was not much better. Surely, it was a lovely service and it was all Steve could do to avoid letting tears fall in public, but he was singled out among her mourning family as someone who didn't quite fit. He was unusual, he stood out, and he didn't want to. All the rest of Peggy's classmates were dead, and Steve should be, too, and he was reminded of that in every long stare and every uncomfortable hello.

He thought, throughout the funeral, of the icy water freezing him stiff, the darkness and the split in the ice fast growing small above him. He thought of his fear, of how it seemed Bucky had come back to save him, and how he should be having a funeral too.

Sharon sat in the front row with the rest of her family and Steve watched the back of her head bow to wipe tears away and Steve hoped she didn't feel alone, up there in the very front. He knew the fact that she was surrounded by family was meaningless regarding true loneliness and he figured there was no way to tell. After all, she'd push him away. And she'd sworn that of aloneness, she wasn't afraid.

After the funeral and after they'd stood in the freezing, dry air and lowered her casket into the ground, Steve wanted to stay at the gravesite and do something for Peggy. But Peggy's family was standing around her grave and he couldn't intrude. So as the rest of the attendees rose to leave, Steve stood too and he looked through the crowd to find Sharon's eyes seeking his. She made a pitying face and he could see her open her mouth to sigh as she nodded her head to him, beckoning him over.

Steve told Bucky and Natasha he'd meet them in the car and Bucky didn't seem to want to leave Steve, but he backed off out of respect for him and once Steve was watching their backs walking away, he turned and approached Sharon.

Sharon stepped back and stood next to him as they stared at the headstone being placed. Sharon's family mumbled and sniffled around them, and Sharon leaned into Steve and spoke.

"You can," she said and swallowed and her voice was thick. "You can say goodbye, too."

Steve looked over at Sharon, shocked to be shown this kindness, and eternally grateful.

"Oh, thank you," Steve said. "Thank you." Sharon just nodded and Steve knelt in the grass, nearer to the open grave, watching the smooth, gleaming headstone being set. He looked down and kissed his fingers and pressed them to the dirt and felt his face grow hot and silent tears fall. He'd cried so much already that these tears, they just came and they were thick and silent, as those kinds of tears always were, the kind that came after everything else, after there was just you and the pain because you'd cried everything else away.

In fact, the pain was so acute that he for once hardly noticed the cold.

Margaret "Peggy" Carter

1919-2014

Loved wife, mother, daughter and aunt

"What we kept in memory is ours forever"


	40. 33 Ex

33 Ex

"Can I talk to you when we get back?" Sharon asked as Steve began to back away from the gravesite towards where Bucky was standing in the distance, leaning against Natasha's car with his hands in his pockets. Steve raised his hand and Bucky looked up and waved back. Steve turned to Sharon.

"Of course," he said. "You can talk to me whenever." Sharon nodded.

"Okay," she said, then stepped closer to him, closing the distance, and she reached up and cupped his face in her palm, using her thumb to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks. He looked into her face and didn't refuse her, blankly letting her touch him. She cocked her head as she studied his face and smiled at him sadly. "Come now," she said. "It's going to be okay."

When Sharon took her hand back and turned back to her family, Steve turned around and wiped the rest of the tears off his face and began to walk back towards the car. Bucky walked forward to meet him and threw an arm around his shoulder, in a sauntering way that was nearly reminiscent of himself from years ago, and Steve leaned into him and let himself be led to the car, remembering different times and different funerals and wondering just how many he'd have to attend before his own. He didn't think he could bare to see many more.

"You alright?" Bucky asked before they both sat down in the backseat, standing there with the doors open. Steve leaned on the door and nodded slowly.

"It's going to be okay," he said after a while and he could hear Sharon's voice in his own. Bucky studied his face and nodded.

"Good to hear," he said as he disappeared into the car and Steve followed him quietly.

Back at the apartment, Steve told Bucky he'd be okay for a while by himself and that Sharon had wanted to say something to him, so Bucky and Natasha left and Steve waited in his apartment for Sharon to return.

When she did, Steve invited her in and asked her to sit and she did and she had taken the veil away from her face and for the first time, Steve could really see how red it was and he looked away out of respect.

"I wanted to let you know that I understand," Sharon said quietly amid the silence and Steve looked up at her again.

"What," he said.

"About Peggy," Sharon said, shifting and looking Steve in the eyes. She shrugged. "Sort of." Steve stared.

"It's different, Sharon," Steve said and frowned deeply, turning his head and rubbing his eyes. "It's not the same." You didn't lose the kind of relationship I lost. You don't understand.

"Yes, I know," Sharon replied, as though she'd heard his thoughts. "And I'm," Sharon swallowed. "Mourning her in my own way." She looked up at Steve and looked into his face. "But I mean about losing someone close like that. Someone romantic." Steve searched Sharon's face, unsure of where the conversation was going, unsure of how to brace himself.

"What do you mean?" He asked and Sharon leaned forward in her seat and sighed.

"I dated a SHIELD guy once," Sharon admitted and her smile was hollow. "He was wonderful, I'd never been in love like I was in love with him. He was sort of like you. I guess altruism is just my type, I dunno, but he was a really great guy." Steve listened intently, watching emotions he'd never seen before in Sharon's eyes, recognizing her sadness there, and her nostalgia.

"What happened?" Steve asked in a voice mostly a whisper. Sharon leaned forward and tossed her hands up, smiling sadly.

"Went on a mission and never came back," she said and her voice shook. Steve felt his mouth go dry as he listened to her, hanging on her words. "It was an out of the country thing, somewhere in Europe about five years ago. He was shot in the head. They thought it was a sniper, but he was dead as soon as the bullet entered his brain and they never found the attackers, never found justice, and all I had left was a body. So we buried him." Steve nodded quietly as he listened and then looked down and swallowed when she finished.

"I'm so sorry, Sharon," he said to her. She let out a breath.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm sorry, too." There was a pause as they both considered this. Steve didn't quite know what else to say to Sharon. It was heartbreaking, and comparable, and he pitied her and respected her for trying again. After all, you can't un-love someone.

You can't un-love, but maybe you can love again. Maybe it's different.

"You know, I was thinking and maybe splitting up was for the best," Sharon continued through the quiet.

"Yeah?" Steve asked.

"We both need time, I think," Sharon said. "And you, Steve, you cast a long shadow." Steve didn't have time to be properly confused by her statement, because she continued, shifting again in her seat, scooting herself closer to Steve until their knees almost touched. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, the break up was a good thing and I'm sorry if I was harsh with you, I am. I didn't want to hurt your feelings-"

"And I didn't want to hurt yours," Steve added. Sharon smiled.

"Thank you," she said kindly. "And, oh, Steve, it's just complicated. But do you think, after some time, you would maybe consider trying again? With us?" Sharon looked into his face with some hope there and Steve felt things going just a little too fast. He hesitated and looked down.

"I don't know, Sharon," he said.

"I'm not asking you to decide right now, just to think about it," Sharon said. Steve was silent and Sharon clasped her hands together and looked down. "I really like you," she admitted. Steve looked at her and was unsure how to respond.

He was at first inclined to feel flattered, but as Sharon's story of her deceased SHIELD boyfriend who was 'so much like Steve' began to solidify in his mind, he couldn't help but wonder if it was really him Sharon liked. He felt further conflicted.

"That's all I wanted to say," Sharon said and looked to him. "Do you want me to leave?" Steve looked over at her, remembered her empty apartment and the way she said she was unafraid of loneliness out loud, but her eyes said something different, and he wanted to spare her that hell.

"No, you should stay," Steve said. "We'll order dinner, okay?" Sharon looked at him and a wide smile grew on her face, and then she looked away and shook her head.

"Steve Rogers, are _you_ comforting _me_ now?" She said and Steve shrugged.

"Is that okay?" He asked and Sharon couldn't seem to stop smiling.

"No, that's wonderful," she said. "I'm just always stunned with how absolutely perfect you are." She laughed. "And they said Prince Charming was just a fairytale."


	41. 34 Holidays

34 Holidays

I remember everything I don't want to. I don't remember Steve, I remember missions. I remember cryo. I remember

I remember

it's

there was these they had they had guns and i just couldn't stop being afraid but I made people afraid too was I not better than them I made so many people afraid

I killed them I did that there is n o excuse

"What's that?" Sharon said and Steve jumped and the journal almost fell out of his hands as he turned around to see Sharon leaning against the doorway. Steve looked down at Bucky's journal in his hands and remembered how Bucky had hid it even from him for so long and felt the need to protect him and his thoughts just the same. He snapped the book closed in his hand and set it on the bed behind him, standing up.

"Nothing," he said, but the words he had been reading had gouged into him and he hadn't had time to recover and his voice was hollow. "It's nothing." Sharon looked at Steve and he watched her eyes go from his face to the bed behind him and back and Steve held his ground. Sharon looked away after a time and shrugged.

"Okay," she said. "I just wanted to let you know the delivery is here." They had ordered Chinese because Steve had promised Sharon dinner, and Steve didn't quite want to stop reading because he wanted to find the place where Bucky began to feel happy, he didn't like leaving it in places where Bucky's sinking emotions dragged Steve down, and he liked to feel hope for Bucky, but for now, he had to leave it, if to prove to Sharon that it really was nothing.

Steve and Sharon sat across from each other at the counter and Steve silently picked at his chow mein as he thought these things, until Sharon said something.

"At least it was a nice service," she said quietly and Steve nodded in agreement.

"It was," he said.

"No one ever said what a great storyteller Peggy was," Sharon said after another quiet moment, shifting her food on her plate thoughtfully, and Steve glanced up at her. "She used to tell the greatest war stories." Steve looked back down. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear war stories. Not now. "She used to tell me about you, too," Sharon added and Steve was losing his appetite and he looked away from his dish. "She told me about how wonderful you were."

"That was kind of her," Steve replied. Then, he frowned at the counter, and asked, "Didn't she ever mention Bucky?" Sharon shrugged and looked up at Steve, leaning across the counter with her elbows up.

"Every so often. Mostly in passing," she said.

"What did she say?" Steve asked and Sharon sighed.

"Very courageous," she said. "Valorous." Steve looked back down and nodded.

"Okay," he said.

Later that day, after Sharon had returned home and Bucky had come back, he and Steve began to talk, as they often did.

Bucky sprawled out on Steve's couch because night was falling and he looked tired, and turned to Steve, sitting on the other couch and watching out the window as snow began to fall.

"It's almost Christmas," Steve said.

"Yeah," Bucky said. "What do you want?"

Steve stared, let out a fast breath and looked down, grimacing, and looked back up, shaking his head just in the slightest.

He wanted to be happy.

He wanted Peggy back.

He wanted to stop feeling guilty, feeling hatred, feeling desperate, feeling washed up on the other side of a nightmare to open his eyes to darkness and cold that his constantly cranked apartment heater couldn't seem to fully expel.

He wanted things to be happy. That was all. Simple happiness, just for a while, please.

Finally, however, he shrugged and looked down.

"You remember Christmas back then?" Steve asked without answering Bucky's question and Bucky nodded slowly.

"Most of them," he said.

"What do you want?" Steve said and Bucky shrugged.

"Nothing you could buy," he said quietly and Steve scoffed.

"Yeah, that's the problem, isn't it," he said. A long silence fell between them and the snow blew harder against the window until Bucky spoke up again.

"How are you feeling?" He asked quietly and Steve sucked in a painful breath, his face growing hot with tears he was trying to keep away. He shrugged and cleared his throat.

"I miss her," he said. "I've been missing her." Bucky looked down and nodded.

"That's okay," Bucky said. "It's okay to miss her. She was a great woman." He looked at Steve and his mouth pressed together sympathetically, "As long as you know it's also okay to move on." Steve stared down at the carpet and his eyebrows furrowed and Bucky shifted. "You can be sad now, but don't feel like you're betraying her when you start to feel better. She did the same for you years ago." Steve tried to swallow.

"Yeah, yeah, she did," he said quietly as he realized this. "She moved on."

"And she was happy," Bucky said. "You can be happy, too. You have that right. You deserve it, alright?" Steve nodded slowly.

"Okay," he whispered.

He didn't want to betray Peggy. He didn't want to move on. He'd rather wallow, and mourn, because it was easier and he already felt the creeping edges of the guilt that would swallow him whole if he abandoned Peggy.

But he wasn't abandoning her. She'd lived a life, she had moved on from Steve, she'd been happy. He wasn't abandoning her, she had died. She'd lived her life. Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe it had been her time. Maybe it was their time... Maybe he ought to begin trying to put it to rest, all of it, start over.

Steve didn't know how to unlove. It was impossible. What's done is done, there's no such thing as starting over and he couldn't go back in time and change what had been made between them.

But maybe, just maybe… He could love again. And maybe, they were two different things.


	42. 35 Bloodloss

35 Bloodloss

Natasha had awoken the previous night, driven out of sleep by the excessive amounts of trembling coming from James, curled up next to her under the sheets. In the moonlight from the window, Natasha could see him shaking under the covers and he was hidden there under the sheets, his face tucked into his chest, so the only part of him she could see was the way he wrapped his arms around his head tensely, gripping fistfuls of his own hair until the knuckles on his right hand were pale. Natasha leaned over to him and pressed her body up against his and for a moment, he resisted her, but as she gently pried his hands away from his scalp and smoothed his hair down lovingly, he began to let her touch him again and he hummed something in his sleep nervously. Natasha pulled the blankets away from his face and saw his cheeks streaked with tears and his eyelids were beginning to flutter, just barely awake, and Natasha sat up and tugged James close to her, his head in her lap so she could wipe the tears off his face and kiss his forehead and stroke his hair.

She knew exactly what to do. Natasha had been living with James for several months now. She had grown accustomed to his night terrors.

When James grew awake enough to realize where he was, he looked up at Natasha and let out a shaking breath, covering his face with one hand.

"So sorry," he mumbled.

"Shh," Natasha said. "I know. You don't have to be."

They laid there for some time until James spoke again.

"I hate this," he said. "I have to… Remind myself that Hydra's gone."

"I understand," Natasha said.

"But… That's only half of it," he continued. "The other part…" Natasha pursed her lips and blinked away wetness blurring her vision of James in the black and white moonlight.

James' nightmares had recently taken a different angle, because as he had explained to Natasha through stammers and half-Russian, he was beginning to see Steve. Steve fallen off a building, Steve with a bullet in his head, Steve at the bottom of a river underneath some bridge so far away, James couldn't save him. James saw Hydra, as he always did, as he probably would for the rest of his life, but now, in addition to that, he saw suicide, and Natasha was just beginning to try to learn what to do about it.

After all, it wasn't like she could tell James that Steve was entirely safe. Steve was becoming, had been, his own worst enemy, and to tell the truth, Natasha was scared, too.

"It wasn't real," Natasha said. "He's okay." But James was already climbing, shaky, out of bed, and reaching for his cell phone on the desk against the far wall and Natasha didn't know how to stop him. She watched James pace, one hand pressing the phone to his cheek and the other on the back of his neck. He went up and down, waiting, until Steve answered and Natasha could visibly see James let out a breath.

"Hey," James said. "You're okay?" There was a pause and a mumbling as Steve responded.

"No, yeah, I'm fine, I just wanted to check on you," James replied. More mumbling.

"Okay," James said. "Okay. Sorry. Okay. I'll see you in the morning." James snapped his phone closed and set it back down onto the desk and collapsed back into bed next to Natasha. "He's fine," James breathed and Natasha laid back down and scooted closer to him and wrapped her arms around him comfortingly.

"See, what'd I tell you," Natasha said. "Not real."

"It was bloodloss," James replied in a whisper Natasha could barely hear. "Slit wrists."

"He's fine," Natasha said.

"I know, but what if…," James replied wearily. "One day…"

"Then we'll both be there to stop him," Natasha said and James looked over at her and shadows fell across his face and he tried to nod quietly, the light illuminating a glow around the edges of him.

"I won't let him do that to himself," James said and Natasha looked at James and reached around him and took his hands and nodded to him and James tried again to close his eyes.

And it occurred to Natasha then, just a sudden thought, that James was in danger too, probably more in danger of blood loss, because Steve definitely had a problem, but Natasha had seen James split his own skin open and turn away as it healed again and again and again.

As James began to fall back to sleep, his breathing beginning to slow, Natasha leaned over him and pressed a kiss to his forehead and dried her tears with her hands because James was a treasure, her treasure, and Steve was her best friend besides Clint Barton, and both Steve and James felt so much pain and were in so much danger that Natasha didn't know to keep them. She just wanted to see them okay, wanted to keep them with her. She knew she couldn't save them herself, and saving people wasn't the Black Widow's expertise, but she would do all she could because she was watching them both fall to pieces.

"You're doing so much better," Natasha whispered to James, asleep, as she laid back down and touched her forehead to his. "So much better. But there's always more to go, I know. I know."


	43. 36 Earn

36 Earn

_I know I missed posting yesterday. :( And I'm so sorry! But I'm afraid, given the fact that I'm struggling to keep up anyway, I'm going to have to stop making up for it. . I'm sorry! Hopefully, I won't miss any days and maybe the fall semester will be easier to write during. -BB_

The thing was, Steve had half-expected to go into Bucky's journal and find accusations. After all, Steve accused _himself_, didn't he? And Bucky had told him he didn't blame him for the fall, told him he was always forgiven, but Steve had a hard time believing that until he saw it in Bucky's journal.

He had always thought of Bucky's love as something he had had to earn back because for such a long time, Bucky had avoided him, had kept his distance, been uninterested in keeping Steve's company and Steve tried so hard to win him back. But this journal, it told a different story. It praised him, nearly exalted him. Bucky's narrative throughout his journal was one of trying to earn _Steve_, trying to feel worthy of his friendship, and Steve often stopped in the middle of scribbled entries to stare at the words and attempt to reconcile them inside his mind.

But, Steve found himself thinking, I had to earn you. I had to be worthy of you, not the other way around.

And it befuddled him endlessly until finally, one night, Steve put down Bucky's book and bundled himself up in preparation for the cold and went to visit Bucky across the street.

Bucky opened the door and Steve was there, breathing hot into his hands, and said, "Was this an unconditional thing?" Bucky raised an eyebrow.

"What?" He said, then shook off his confusion and ushered Steve inside. "What are you talking about?"

"I had to earn you back," Steve said. "Didn't I? Did I have to deserve you?" Bucky stared at Steve, confused and concerned.

"You need to start from the beginning," he said. "Slow down. _Deserve_ me? You aren't making sense."

"At the beginning," Steve said, his arms folded tight now across his chest, hugging the heat in. "You didn't want to see me. You avoided me." Bucky stared at Steve and he looked for a moment like he was reliving that, only a few months earlier, and Steve watched Bucky's eyes begin to shine with tears. He stiffened a little bit around the edges then, blinking.

"Yeah," he said. "I did."

"Why," Steve said and Bucky was beginning to wrap his arms around himself and shift his weight on his feet, uncomfortable.

"You know why," he replied in a hushed voice.

"I hadn't earned your love," Steve said.

"_I _hadn't earned _yours_!" Bucky exclaimed. "You know why, Steve, you know, I, my book, I wrote everything down!" Bucky squeezed himself tighter and his face was growing red, but so was Steve's, and Steve's vision was beginning to blur through tears as this onslaught of emotion, this wall of feeling drove into them both with a ferocity. "You know, you know, I was ashamed and scared. It… You thought… How could you think it was you?" Steve dropped his arms and stared at Bucky and shook his head.

"I don't know," he said and he blinked and felt tears streak his cheeks. "Maybe I could see that in you, how you felt, but I still felt guilty, it was still my fault." I still didn't deserve you. I still hadn't earned your love.

"What?" Bucky said.

"I owe you so much," Steve said. "Everything. I haven't earned your friendship." Bucky stared.

"That's not _true_," he replied. "That's not… Steve, that's not even how it works."

"What do you mean?" Steve said and Bucky looked away and scoffed, and Steve could see him actively trying to pull himself from the memory of avoiding Steve, the pain of it in the past.

"Friendship," he said. "My friendship, you don't earn it like it's something you have to pay for. I just… _Give_ it to you, and there's no conditions. It wasn't you being… You being unworthy somehow, it was me being unready. And ashamed and-" he stopped and pressed his mouth together and began to pace, looking at Steve. "Okay? You aren't… You don't earn our friendship. It's a mutual thing."

"It is," Steve replied, half a question, begging, and Bucky nodded. "Even if I'm-"

"Don't you dare," Bucky interrupted him. "You're going to say burden, don't say it. It's not true."

"You sacrificed so much for me," Steve whispered. "Years ago, and now. You give up things for me. I make things hard for you." Bucky stood and stared at Steve for a long time.

"I don't know what to say," Bucky said. "How do I convince you, how can I… That's not true, Steve."

"What do you mean, 'it's not true'," Steve argued. "You gave up everything for me over and over and over. I could barely work, most of your money went to keeping me alive and I couldn't even do anything to help." Bucky stared again and there was a long silence and Steve's words rang in the air then, rang in their ears, until Bucky broke the ringing silence with a whisper.

"You say that," Bucky said. "Like every single second wasn't worth it." Steve swallowed and listened to Bucky desperately. "You say that like keeping you alive wasn't something I was happy to sacrifice everything for. Cause I was." Bucky threw up his hands. "What would I rather have? An extra meal? A little pocket change? More free time? Or my best friend? You were so worth it, Steve, I've never done anything more worth it."

"I couldn't pull my fair share," Steve said and Bucky gasped exhaustedly and grabbed Steve's shoulders, looking into his face. He enunciated every word with vigor.

"You. Didn't. Have. To," he said. "Your worth to me was never defined by how much you could help out, that's ridiculous. Those months ago, when I kept my distance from you, that was _my_ problem, not yours. You never had to earn back my love because you never lost it. And I've always given it to you freely. You weren't a burden. You weren't a burden!" Steve made no effort now to stop the tears streaking his face.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Do you believe me?!" Bucky cried and Steve nodded slowly.

"I'm trying to," he said and Bucky looked at him and swallowed, his hands still tight around Steve's shoulders.

"That's a start," Bucky replied in a whisper. "That's a great start."

Love, real, honest love, the love that counts, isn't something you have to exactly earn. That's the beautiful thing about it, the unconditional thing. We never truly _earn_ the love we receive from the people in our lives, but those people overlook our faults and love us anyway and that-that is what's so great about it. That's what true love is and Steve was beginning to realize this as he collapsed into Bucky's arms and let himself be held and thought to himself just how grateful he was, how lucky he was, to have a friend like Bucky.


	44. 37 Heal

37 Heal

What good was healing if Bucky couldn't heal the things that mattered, like the heart of his best friend? What did it matter if he healed when all the important things were still sick? Bucky contemplated this a lot, and hated himself for it, for the way that he couldn't help Steve, for the way Steve stared at him desperately, eyes red and shining with tears, and no matter how Bucky yelled, he could rarely get anything through to Steve, not really. It was like something was lost in translation from the emotions in Bucky's heart to what Steve managed to force himself to believe in his head. Bucky didn't know how to be more blatantly obvious.

His book, that was an 'end of the line' statement. That was an expression of friendship, of love, of trust, and still even that had difficulty convincing Steve, with his sick heart. Bucky looked down at his new book, the pages beginning to wrinkle with the ink and wear on the inside as he kept a close record of everything with loving detail. He was at a loss.

What good was healing. What good was it.

Bucky kept record of one thing inside his head only, and that was his healing times. The deepness of the wound, the time it took to seal back up. Bucky rubbed his right forearm, scarless and as clean as though he'd never even scraped it, and thought of those times.

He started in on his upper forearm, near his elbow, digging with his pocketknife until there was a deep groove in his flesh and the pain was beginning to make him shake and he set his knife down and looked at it, checked the clock, watched it pull back together. Half inch deep, seven minutes, give or take some. He wiped up the blood and tried again. Three fours inch deep, starting time now-

"James?"

Bucky's head snapped up and he didn't have time to hide what he'd been doing because blood was actually dripping off his arm and Natalia was already in the room, her eyes wide and both hands clapped around her mouth. Bucky put his bleeding arm behind his back and ignored the sting and put up his left hand as though to calm her.

"Don't be scared," he said. "It's fine." Natalia took her hands away from her mouth slowly and gaped at Bucky.

"Did you do that on purpose?" she asked hoarsely and Bucky couldn't lie to her, but he didn't want to answer either. His silence became answer enough and he watched her face grow red and she put another hand to her mouth again and looked away, stunned.

"It's fine," Bucky tried again and Natalia looked up at him with venom in her eyes and she pulled her hands away and was advancing on him, slamming her open palms down on the counter across from him, leaning into his face until he had to pull back, feeling the heat of her anger there.

"No!" She growled. "It is _not_ fine! You can't do this!"

"Why?" Bucky cried. "It doesn't even scar, it barely hurts."

"Because…," Natalia let out a sob and clapped her hand over her mouth again before she regained control of herself. "How do you not see, James, because it's unhealthy! Because it's harmful."

"It heals," Bucky said.

"I mean psychologically!" Natalia shot back. "Don't tell me you think doing this is healthy. Don't tell me that."

"It's not _un_healthy," Bucky said, his arm still behind his back and he could feel his skin coming together again, muscle fusing back into one, and remaining blood run in rivulets down his arm.

"It is!" Natalia cried. "Healing or not, that's not the point! The point is that you think it's okay to harm yourself, regardless of whether or not you heal, that's not okay!"

There was a quiet then, and the tension in the stare between Bucky and Natalia was legendary. He hated to argue with her. He didn't like the tension. He wished he could make her happy.

"What if you hurt yourself too deeply one time?" Natalia demanded and Bucky shrugged.

"I just won't," he said.

"But you could," she replied, losing tempo now, her voice sinking into a desperate whisper. "You could lose too much blood. You could do permanent damage." Bucky looked sadly into her face and he felt his arm whole again, so he pulled it back from behind him and held it up to her.

"Natalia," he whispered, lifting his eyebrows almost pleadingly. "I'm fine." Natalia walked around the counter hurriedly and he turned to her, wiping the blood off his arm with a towel to reveal no cut, no scar, not even a scratch, and Natalia, with tears running down her cheeks, took his arm in her fingers and held it up to her face and studied him.

"Oh, my darling," she said to him in Russian through her tears and kissed his arm where she had seen his knife dig. "I'm begging you to stop." Bucky reached forward with his other hand and cupped her cheek and she looked up at him and Bucky knew he couldn't make any promises.

Because, really, what good was healing, in the long run? What good was it anyway.


	45. 37 and a half ---

Loneliness feels a lot like sinking. You can feel yourself falling farther and farther and maybe, if you'd dare look up, you'd see that split in the ice where everything went wrong and you began to suffocate. People stop the sinking sometimes, because they distract you from the thoughts that bring you down and down and down. If you don't have time to think those thoughts, you have a harder time sinking, but it's never a permanent thing, and the moment you turn around and they leave, you can feel your throat close up again and your heart become heavier and heavier. That was why Steve was grateful for the companionship, for the constant being there. It might have made him tired and it might have felt horrible to be someone who needed something like that. After all, it hurt his pride and he hated to think that people were sacrificing for him. But truth be told, it _helped_. Because the fire of the guilt that swallowed him burned on, as usual, but at the least the tide lowered for a moment and for a while, Steve wasn't drowning in the heaviness of his heart and the thickness of the tide in his mind. For a moment, he was distracted, and he was saved.


	46. 38 Fury

38 Fury

Over the next few days, several things happened.

First, Sharon and Steve discovered morse code between the wall they shared in between apartments.

H-e-l-l-o, Sharon rapped and Steve repeated the same sequence back to her, his knuckles against the wall.

U-o-k, Steve rapped and after some hesitation, Sharon sent back a yes.

U, Sharon said and Steve smiled sadly.

O-k, he tapped.

It was nearly impossible to have honest conversations like this, but it made Steve smile and more often than not, when he heard the knocking, he knew he wasn't entirely alone and it felt special and secret, something just between them.

The next thing happened days later, across the wall and beyond the morse, where Steve found himself feeling at least a little bit better. Now that he had come to terms with the fact that Peggy _had_ lived a life and she _had_ moved past Steve and would probably want him to do the same, he could feel a little better with the fact that she was gone. Sam was over then, taking his shift as Steve contemplated this, and Steve mentioned it to him over a lunch they were sharing.

"That's good," Sam said in between bites of frozen pizza. "You're gonna get through this, no problem."

"I still miss her," Steve said and Sam swallowed and sighed.

"One day," he said. "You'll be happy. That's just life. Realizing you can move on is a part of it."

"Okay," Steve said and looked down at his plate and thought numbly over and over and over again, one day, you'll be happy.

And these things were very important, but by far the most important event to come out of this week was the last one, when Fury called. Bucky, who had been sitting on Steve's couch and closing his eyes, sat up a little and listened in as Steve picked up the phone.

"Captain Rogers, as you know, your leave is up and the Avengers are again in need of your assistance," Fury said. Steve swallowed.

"Do we have a situation?" Steve asked, unsure if he was ready to see action again, but knowing he couldn't say no. He could see Bucky tense up out of the corner of his eye.

"There's a team of RAID members downtown with explosives," Fury said. "Barton and Romanoff are already on the scene and we need you to join them."

"I'll be there," Steve said and as he hung up, Bucky was already hovering close behind him, his shoulders back and a concerned look on his face.

"What's going on?" He asked. "That was Fury." Steve was hurrying already, Bucky trailing behind, and he didn't have time for his uniform, so he threw on a jacket from his closet and grabbed his shield from by his bed.

"RAID downtown," Steve explained quickly.

"Who?" Bucky said.

"Terrorists," Steve said, already almost out the door, heading down the hallway, leaving Bucky. "I'll be back soon."

"Are you gonna take your fricking helmet?" A befuddled Bucky yelled after him and Steve turned around as he sped down the hallway to catch the blue helmet Bucky threw to him and then turned a corner, leaving Bucky at Steve's apartment, still confused and more than a little miffed. Bucky pressed his mouth together in frustration. "You should have grabbed a coat, it's below freezing out there!" He yelled with no response. Bucky glanced back behind him from the apartment to the direction Steve had disappeared down and clenched his fists. "_Damn_ it," he growled and kicked the ground, because this was the most important thing to happen and Bucky could feel it. "Here we go."


	47. 39 RAID

39 RAID

It was freezing, Bucky had been right. Steve stepped outside and felt his breath leave him to the cold, dry air and he could feel it reaching inside him again in an all too familiar way. The wind went right through his jacket and the metal of his shield against his body was icy. He didn't stop running, but for a moment, it felt like he did because he hit the cold like hitting a brick wall and everything seemed to slow down and when his breath left, time stopped and he was sinking into the Arctic, so alone he could hear his own heart breaking.

There was chaos downtown and once he shook off the shock of the sudden pain, Steve found his teammates with ease. Just follow the destruction.

"Nice of you to join us, Cap!" Natasha shouted over the din and Steve shrugged his shield over his forearm and bent his knees. Another bomb went off behind them.

"Where's the rest of the bombs?" Steve yelled back. "Have you gotten the civilians out of here?"

"That was step number one!" Clint said from behind Steve. "You already missed it! They're all long gone! It's just us and the bad guys now!"

"Good," Steve replied and then they were swarmed from all sides, people in yellow suits with guns and explosives and Steve was fighting them off, picking through them one by one, even though the cold was beginning to stiffen his fingers and joints and he was just keeping the fear at bay, the way he couldn't feel his nose anymore and he was beginning to breathe hard, just like then, just like a few years ago when he froze over completely.

Natasha noticed.

In between the fight, taking advantage of a brief lull in combat, she sidled up behind him and pressed her back to his and reached over and touched his arm gently. He wished he could take in her warmth.

"Breathe, Steve," she instructed quietly. "Do you want to sit out for a while?"

"I can't," Steve said back and his breath was shaking. "There's too many of them, I need to help."

"Are you sure?" Natalia asked and before Steve could answer, they were back in the throes of attack again.

Meanwhile, the Winter Soldier felt the drain of emotion inside him. He tried to shut it all off, but it was harder than it had been before and while he felt monstrous and dead inside, he couldn't escape the burning loathing.

Another yellow suit, running at Steve.

Aim

Breathe in

Fire

Breathe out

The yellow suit hit the ground with an splattering of red that the Winter Soldier could see even from where he had positioned himself stories off the ground, behind a darkened window. He wanted to puke, he could feel himself spiraling and suddenly, it was like he had never made any progress at all.

Two yellow suits, going for Natalia.

Aim

Breathe in

Fire

Breathe out

They weren't going for her anymore.

Steve was fighting off a yellow suit, and there was one creeping up behind him.

Aim

Breathe in

Fire

Breathe out

The Winter Soldier did this again and again and again, until he ran out of ammunition, reloaded with the magazine clipped to his waist and continued. Next shot he fired, Steve was looking up, following the bullet with his eyes and the Winter Soldier sunk deeper into the darkness behind him.

"Bucky!" He heard Steve scream. "Go home!"

Aim

Breathe in

Fire

Breathe out

He answered Steve with a hail of bullets and bodies of countless yellow suits hit the ground. Going home wasn't an option, not when Steve and Natalia were surrounded by people who would hurt them, people who would hurt innocents, people sort of like the Winter Soldier. And besides, the Winter Soldier thought, if Steve was worried about the effect it would have on him, he was too late. Going back would change nothing now, he was in it deep, he was sinking into the way he could feel everything muted, everything except for the poisonous self-loathing, and the Hydra insignia was inside the blackness every time he blinked.

He shivered and a cold wind blew through the window. It was starting to snow and it was getting dark. His left arm, usually warm enough with the heat of his body, was frigid to the touch and he cupped his right hand over his mouth and breathed to warm it up. He was freezing, but-

Aim

B-b-breathe in

F-fire

Breathe o-o-out

He was freezing, it was so cold.

He hadn't had a jacket to take, he had gone there straight from Steve's apartment, assumed he would be okay, knew this was more important. The Winter Soldier shuddered and grit his teeth and aimed his rifle again.


	48. 40 Cold

40 Cold

"Bucky's up there," Steve cried and the color drained out of Natasha's face.

"Oh," she said. "No. He should be at home."

"I know," Steve said and he reached out to bash another attacker in the face, but instead watched a bullet from above sink into his chest. "He's going to-"

"Relapse," Natasha breathed and squeezed her eyes shut for a half a second. "He's going to trigger himself."

Steve shivered as a fierce wind blew and snowflakes began to spiral around him. He hated the cold, he hated it, hated it.

"We have to finish up here fast," Natasha said. "Get to him!"

When the threat began to diminish and finally, it seemed as though he had fulfilled his purpose, the Winter Soldier collapsed against the wall behind him and sunk down to the ground. He touched his hand to his face and found that even though he knew it was freezing, he couldn't feel the cold metal against his numb skin. He was shuddering violently, and he couldn't attribute it all to the cold. He knew Natalia and Steve would be looking for him and suddenly, he didn't quite want to be found yet, not until he could come to himself. He knew tears were running down his face, but he couldn't feel them.

At least Steve was safe. At least they hadn't touched Natalia. He may be cold and he may be scared and he may be a monster, but at the very least, the people he loved were okay. It had all been worth it.

The Winter Soldier could hear people coming for him and he remembered handlers hunting him down and he stood up and looked to the open window and made an escape route in his mind and was gone into the cold before Steve burst into the room, yelling, to find only Bucky's shuffled footprints in the dust.

It was getting darker and darker, but Natasha and Steve searched for Bucky all night. Natasha got them coats from their apartments and Steve wrapped himself up and shivered and Natasha had an extra coat for Bucky over her shoulder, one with two sleeves instead of one. Steve pretended not to see Natasha rubbing tears off her cheeks and Steve felt awful. He couldn't find Bucky, couldn't save him, again, as the snow piled on the ground and Bucky was missing.

He found Bucky eventually, sitting on the ground in some alley, letting snow rest on his shoulders and the top of his head, wrapping his arms around his knees and staring forward blankly. His lips and the tips of his flesh fingers were blue. His rifle sat beside him underneath a sheet of white and Steve fell down next to him.

"Buck, come on," he said quietly and tried to help Bucky stand, but Bucky shook his head slowly and refused, so Steve scooted up close to him and brushed the snow off his body and threw his arms around his shoulders, even though the cold of his left stung Steve's skin. "Why did you follow me? Why didn't you stay home?"

"D-d-d-," Bucky stammered, his voice hoarse.

"Okay, okay, we'll talk about it later, come on, stand up," Steve said and finally, Bucky let himself be led, up to his feet, hobbled back onto the sidewalk underneath the lights were Steve could see ice inside the plates of Bucky's arm again and the tip of his nose looked frostbitten. Steve sucked in a breath and immediately pulled off his coat and wrapped it around Bucky's shoulders because it was clear who needed it more, and he pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Natasha.

"We're a few blocks from the apartments," Steve said and he could hear Natasha let out a breath of relief.

"Na-n-nat-," Bucky said breathlessly and Steve turned to him just in time to see his eyes roll up in his head and his knees give out. Steve leapt forward and caught him and, with a free hand, he quickly hailed a cab and loaded himself and Bucky inside.

At the apartment complex, Steve was able to wake Bucky up just enough to have him climb out of the car and lean against Steve as they hobbled into the building. The warmth was a shock and Steve hugged Bucky close and took him back into his own room where Natasha waited anxiously to help them.

There was blood on the carpet, Bucky noticed, and he saw Natalia pull her pant leg back down over a stab wound she'd stitched herself when he stumbled in, leaning against Steve. His right ankle hurt, in that numb, muted, frozen way. It was probably sprained. He had landed on it wrong after his jump from the window and had been lucky to have sustained only that. But he couldn't feel his fingers or his face and the cold made everything sore.

Bucky heard Natalia insist that Steve rest on the couch and he transferred Bucky into Natalia's hands gently. Bucky stared at the ground and let himself be pushed in one direction to the other. Everything inside him felt a little bit collapsed as Natalia walked him into their room. She was talking to him, gently, quietly. He started trying to pay attention. Everything hurt, inside and outside.

"Okay?" Natalia asked. "Is that okay?"

"What okay," Bucky muttered.

"Your arm is frozen again. We should take it off to help warm you up," Natalia repeated herself and Bucky looked over at his left, stiff and coated in ice, and reached over with shaking, numb fingers to flip the switch on the back of his shoulder and disconnect his frozen arm. Natalia helped him take it off and set it on counter. "Now your shirt," Natalia said and Bucky shook his head.

"Cold," he said. "I'm…"

"I know you're cold," Natalia said. "Which is why I'm going to warm you up. Trust me." He let her push him onto the bed and strip his shirt and jacket off and bundle him up under covers and quilts, and then she did the same and wrapped her bare arms around his chest under the blankets to warm his freezing body. The heat grew and Bucky felt his eyelids grow heavy again as he melted, half-naked and one-armed, into Natalia's embrace.

After a time, Natalia whispered in Bucky's ear and Bucky was just awake enough to hear her.

"How are you feeling?" She said.

"I…," Bucky said hoarsely. "I don't want to… To be that again," he mumbled.

"You're okay, you're okay," Natalia responded. "Why didn't you stay home?"

"And leave you," Bucky said and scoffed. "Leave you."

"_You_ trained me, James," Natalia said. "I can defend myself."

"Steve-,"

"Is superhuman," Natalia interrupted him and nuzzled her face into the freezing back of his neck. "This hurt you."

"I couldn't stay home," Bucky said. I hate myself, he thought.

Steve, it was more than the threat of the yellow suits with the bombs. Bucky had to be there to protect him from himself, to pull him out of the water in case the ice broke under his feet again. In case he broke the ice under his own feet.

Natalia sighed as Bucky began to drift further into sleep.

"I know," she said quietly and squeezed his body tighter against hers.

In the living room, Steve tried to rest, aching, on the couch he'd spent many nights, and no matter how heavy his eyes felt and how he yearned for rest, his entire body was tense and he spent a good portion of the night staring darkly at the ceiling and trying to rub the feeling back into his fingers. Eventually, he fell into restless sleep.

He dreamt that night of ice and Bucky falling out of the open window and when a bomb exploded under him, Steve jerked himself awake and hugged himself, shuddering.


	49. 40 and a half ---

When you're in the thick of it, it's hard to think those words. _One day, you'll be happy._ It feels like lying to yourself because when you're there and you're suffering, it is so damn hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Luckily, Steve had Sam and if Sam wasn't a glowing ray of sunshine at the end of a dark night, he didn't know what was. Sam had been through the mill, just like Steve, he had faced the darkness and he did it even more alone than Steve had. And Sam had made it out alive.

One day, you'll be happy, Sam had said, and because Steve could see the light glinting, he dared to believe him.


	50. 41 Flu

41 Flu

In the morning, there came the discovery of a full assessment of the battle wounds accumulated the previous night.

Steve had it the easiest. He was sore, and he had a few bruises and scrapes, but he was none the worse for wear.

Natasha was much the same, excepting a dangerously deep shrapnel wound in her calf from a bombshell gone off too close. It was miraculous, truly. They were okay.

Or maybe it wasn't a miracle. After all, they'd had their own personal sniper.

Bucky was by far the worse off of everyone. To begin, he had mild frostbite in his fingers and face, and his skin was waxy and pale. Natasha was certain that it wasn't too bad, and that keeping him warm would fix it. She had been right, and between her and Steve's constant contact, one warm, winter glove and Bucky's remarkable healing, his skin had returned to normal by the end of the day. However, they discovered that his escape out of the window had sprained and very nearly broken his ankle and more incredible yet, he had woken again in the morning with a horrible fever and flu symptoms.

Not to mention the way he was staring again, the way he said little, the way he had fallen hard into a dreadful relapse.

Natasha sat by Bucky in bed and dabbed at the cold sweat across his brow with a napkin and Steve sat in a chair across the room, his head in his hands.

"No," Bucky muttered once. "Stop?" Natasha blinked in confusion and pulled her hand away from Bucky's forehead and as he spoke more, they learned that he was delirious. "Don't touch me, don't touch me, please stop," he slurred. "Don't… Make me…"

"James, can you hear me?" Natasha said and Bucky's eyes were glazed over and he sunk further into his covers, shivering and sneezing.

"Don't make me," Bucky mumbled in a weak voice.

"We aren't making you do anything," Natasha said. "Come on, James, shh. You're okay."

But Bucky didn't stop and Steve leaned over his knees with his head in his hands and stared in horror at the ground as he listened to Bucky slur together scared, delirious pleas. Steve felt suddenly ill as well, like he was going to throw up, or sob, or both because the things that Bucky was saying were awful. It was painful to listen to until Bucky slipped into Russian and Steve felt again guilt. He couldn't save Bucky, couldn't do him that one thing, and now it was as though he had done all those terrible things to Bucky himself. He felt it all, so much, all the time, and it was like something had been punched out of the middle of him. He felt it dissolving him away and he hated himself for it.

"Stopstopstopstopstopplease," Bucky thrashed weakly until Natasha was able to restrain him and force him to lay still.

"When," Steve muttered darkly from across the room. "When is he going to heal from this?" Natasha looked over at Steve and hesitated.

"The fever?" She said and Steve let out a breath. "Hopefully soon."

"If not for me," Steve groaned. "He could have been happy."

There were times during which Steve found it easier to believe that he wasn't a burden on Bucky and that Bucky had been happy with him and still was, but this was not one of those times. He was just beginning to believe that maybe he shouldn't blame himself like he did, and now that was all falling away. He struggled to suck in a breath. He felt strangled by the guilt.

"Steve," Natasha said firmly. "You don't have to take all this. Stop taking it all on." Steve said nothing and stared at the carpet until Natasha said his name again louder. "Steven!" She said and Steve looked up. "Stop it now." Steve didn't know what to do, how to react.

"No," he said. "But look at this. Look at it. Bucky isn't the one who's supposed to be sick here, he's not the one supposed to be miserable."

"And you are?" Natasha said and Steve threw up his hands.

"I'm _supposed _to be-," he started to say dead, but when he realized what he was admitting out loud to Natasha, he cut himself off and shrunk back, swallowing a lungful of the tide rising above his head. "Supposed to be…" Steve ground his teeth loudly in frustration, then jumped to his feet and pointed to Bucky, the cold sweat plastering his hair to his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut and muttered. "He should be happy!"

_I should be dead!_

Natasha frowned deeply at Steve.

"Sit down," she instructed. "And shush. There's no need to shout." Steve let out a breath and collapsed back into his chair. "Now," Natasha continued as she turned back to Bucky, holding his hand and dabbing at his forehead. "You're right about one thing. James should be happy. But he's not going to be happy without you. Stop thinking you personally cause every misery he's ever felt."

"It's not that easy," Steve said back in a hoarse whisper.

"Stee-Steve?" Bucky said and Steve was up out of his chair again in an instant and at Bucky's side.

"Yeah, I'm here," Steve said and Bucky let go of a breath. "You want me here?"

"I want you here," Bucky said and Steve could feel Natasha giving him a look, an 'I told you so'. "I," Bucky said. "They, I could see… them, are they-"

"No one's here, Buck," Steve said. "Just you and me and Nat. You've just got a bad fever."

"Okay," Bucky said weakly. "Okay." Steve looked up at Natasha and she was looking down now, her hair covering her face, silent.


	51. 42 Apology

42 Apology

H-e-y, Sharon tapped. U-o-k?

B-u-c-k-s-i-c-k, Steve replied.

O-s-r-y, Sharon said. H-e-l-p?

You would help? Steve thought.

N-o, Steve tapped back. T-h-x. Then, U?

O-k, Sharon said. O-k.

That night, there was a bad snowstorm and Bucky disappeared. After some frantic searching, Natasha was the one to find him, two blocks away from the apartment, collapsed in a snow heap behind a dumpster in an alley. She pulled him out of the ice and wrapped him in the blankets she had brought and hugged his body close to hers while she called Steve to get a cab. He was wet with the snow and shivering and the cold was just beginning to break his fever.

She knew why he ran. It was his delusions. And with the fierce cold and snow around them, it would be harder and harder for him to remind himself that he wasn't in the USSR anymore as his fever warped his reality.

When Steve reached them, Bucky was only speaking Russian, rapidfire and slurred, and Steve had no idea what to do. He helped Natasha get Bucky into the cab and they cranked up the heater on the way home as Bucky carried on to Natasha in words Steve couldn't understand and he felt useless. He wasn't helping at all, he couldn't even talk to Bucky.

Now see, Steve thought to himself. If you were dead…

He didn't finish his thought. He looked out the window and watched the world gone white with flurries of snow. It was almost Christmas.

Later, their luck began to look up as Steve and Natasha could practically _see_ Bucky recovering and he was able to keep down the soup they gave him and Steve laid down on the other side of his bed with him and put a pillow over his face and closed his eyes.

"You're gonna get sick if you do that," Bucky commented and Steve scoffed.

"No," he said. "I won't. If I got sick, that would mean things were finally starting to make sense in the world again and," Steve almost laughed. "That's obviously not going to happen."

"Whatever you say," Bucky said tiredly. "If you wake up with the flu, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Wouldn't be so lucky," Steve replied, his voice muffled by the pillow and Bucky looked over at him and Steve could hear him swallow.

And it wasn't that Steve wasn't grateful to be healthy, because he was, he was so grateful. But when Bucky lay there sick with skyrocketing fevers, Steve couldn't help but feel somewhat wrong and colossally guilty because if anyone should be ill, shouldn't it be him? It had been him for years, after all, and if Bucky deserved anything, it wasn't this.

Steve would take it for him, the sickness, if he could. It just wasn't fair and it just wasn't right. In a just world, after all, Bucky was healthy and happy because he deserved it.

As soon as Steve left that night, Natasha and Bucky received another call at their door. Sharon stood there, looking tense and uncomfortable. Bucky stood out of bed slowly as to not make himself dizzy and reattached his arm quickly before throwing a robe over his shoulders to walk out and meet her with Natalia.

"What does she want?" Bucky asked Natalia weakly in Russian, quiet in order to not be either heard or understood by Sharon and Natalia shrugged.

"She's got a knife up her right sleeve and I think one in her boot," she replied. "No guns that I could ascertain. But that's just at a glance." Bucky smiled at her and she wrapped her arm around him from behind to help him stand.

"You're amazing," he said as he hobbled out with her, easy on his nearly-healed right ankle, to see Sharon standing by the couch. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but he knew that when she turned around and looked at him with red eyes and her makeup tear-streaked, he was caught off-guard.

"Is Steve still in danger?" Sharon asked Bucky.

"Well he isn't just magically better, if that's what you mean," Bucky said sardonically, staring at her face and getting used to the way she stood in front of both him and Natalia now with a lot of walls collapsed. "Yeah, he's still in danger."

"What are you doing about it?" Sharon demanded and Bucky glared.

"The best I can do," he said defensively. "None of us are exactly in tiptop shape, if you hadn't noticed."

"What do you need, Carter," Natalia said, letting Bucky go gently and stepping carefully in front of him. Sharon seemed to search the ground with her bloodshot eyes.

"Just that," she said. "I need to know he'll be okay."

"He will," Natalia said. "We're taking care of him."

"Is he still contemplating…," Sharon stopped and frowned and as much as Bucky wanted to say no, he knew he wasn't certain. There was a long silence and Bucky swallowed.

"We're taking care of him," Bucky finally echoed Natalia and Sharon pressed her mouth together.

"I see," she said and there followed another long quiet and Sharon threw up her hands. "I want to, um, apologize," she said and Natalia and Bucky shared a quick glance. Suspicious.

"Apologize?" Bucky said.

"I'm sorry about the episode at Thanksgiving," she said and then her blue eyes narrowed. "For Steve's sake." Bucky frowned.

"Then I forgive you for Steve's sake," he replied.

"You don't have to forgive her for anything, James," Natalia muttered to Bucky in Russian. "Not until you get a sincere apology."

"I think this is as sincere as it's going to get," Bucky replied.

"I don't like working with you, Barnes," Sharon said as she started for the door. Bucky could feel Natalia tense up next to him.

"You'd like working with me less," she threatened and Sharon looked over her shoulder, holding the open door in one hand.

"I'm sure," she replied dryly.

"As always, Ms Carter," Bucky replied. "It's been a real fricking delight."

"And you," Sharon yelled and shut the door just a little too hard. Natalia threw her head back and groaned.

"What a piece of work," she said.

"I'm going back to bed," Bucky grumbled.

_Probably no chapter for maybe half a week? Moving again and the next semester is starting. :( I'm sorry about the interruptions, guys, I'd hope to keep this from happening. But thank you for being patient with me and you've all be so supportive. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! -BB_


	52. 43 Soup

43 Soup

The next day, Steve brought Bucky soup, a special recipe Bucky himself used to make for Steve when he was sick and when Bucky was there always to save him and fix him and make everything better. Steve didn't know if he would recognize the soup now, but regardless, it was sure to help him feel a little better.

"Hey," Steve said by way of greeting as he stepped into Bucky's bedroom with the hot tupperware container in hand. "How're you feeling?" Bucky shrugged, sitting up under his covers with a crumpled white undershirt on.

"Fever's down," he said. "For the most part." Steve smiled at him.

"That's good," Steve said, setting the soup down on Bucky's bedside table and sitting off the edge of the bed and Bucky scooted over to give him room. "I guessed you'd be up and at 'em in no time," he said confidently, his smile becoming a grin, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

"I guess I bounce back pretty fast," he said. "Wonder why."

"And your ankle?" Steve continued, ignoring Bucky's bitter sardonicism.

"Completely healed," he said.

"That's great," Steve said. Then, "I wanted to talk to you about this whole thing. Nat and I, we're Avengers, it's what we do. We're gonna be in a lot of danger. Okay?" Bucky stared at him, then he looked down and away from Steve's face and cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I, uh… I know."

"So you can't do this," Steve said. "If it hurts you like it hurt you now, you just can't."

"I can't just sit at home," Bucky protested and Steve's face hardened.

"Yeah, Buck, you can," he said. "Look, I promise I'll be fine. And Nat, too. You've seen her in action, she can hold her own. You can't save everyone, not like this." Bucky's jaw clenched and he let out a breath.

"If you came back after one of these fights shot," Bucky said. "Or stabbed. Or-" _dead_. Bucky ground his teeth. "I'd never forgive myself."

"I promise I'm careful," Steve said and Bucky barked a laugh.

"Careful, yeah," he said and then he was looking back up into Steve's eyes. "Careful like when you got that kid out of the ice at Sam's place?" Steve swallowed, looking back into Bucky's eyes, and didn't know what to say. "That can't happen again," Bucky said, shaking his head now. "I don't like… Sniping, I don't. But if I can kill the guy who would shoot the bullet that you wouldn't run from, if I can stop it all from happening, you better bet I will." Steve looked down, still finding that he wanted to say something, and didn't know how. Maybe after so many years underneath the water, holding his breath, he'd forgotten how to use that breath when someone reached in and dragged him out through the ice.

"This isn't about me," he finally said quietly. Without missing a beat, Bucky leaned forward, staring into his eyes, and said, "You're wrong. This was always about you." Steve swallowed loudly and stared at his hands.

After a few poignant, silent moments, Bucky leaned back into his pillows and spoke again.

"You know, I've been thinking," he said.

"'Bout what," Steve said.

"Death," Bucky said. Me too, Steve thought. "What if I were to tell you I think I should die. Just… Theoretically." Steve looked over, alarmed.

"What?!" He cried and Bucky shrugged, dangerously nonchalant.

"On that helicarrier, you shouldn't have throw away your damn shield, you should have used it to bash in my head," Bucky said and Steve felt his stomach turn and suddenly, he couldn't swallow.

"How could you say that? Even hypothetically, Bucky..." Steve replied breathlessly and then Bucky furrowed his brow as he tried to speak, threw up his hands and looked like he was having trouble forming the words.

"It's a fact," he said. "I am a mess."

"No," Steve said.

"And I'm, I can't be… Not fixable, okay?" Bucky said and tried to let out a breath, and then he looked at Steve, right at his face.

"That's, no," Steve said, shaking his head.

"I'm _sick, Steve_," Bucky said loudly, pointedly, in a way that sounded somehow familiar to Steve. "_So you should let me die_." Steve jumped to his feet.

"Stop!" He cried. "Absolutely not!"

"Why!" Bucky shouted. "I'm taking up your time, aren't I? Your space, your fricking food, causing you heartbreak! Why shouldn't I die?!" Steve only had time to think, 'what happened to theoretically', before his mouth opened and he started responding, his heart in a direct correlation with his tongue and these words, they felt deeper than they were, and they felt true.

"Because I love you!" Steve screamed back. "You shouldn't want to die, and it's not your fault! You don't take up anything I'm not willing to give you in the first place! You aren't a burden!" Then, to Steve's surprise, a grin spread across Bucky's face and he looked triumphant. He threw up his arms again.

"Exactly!" He screamed at Steve and fell back down on his pillows. "Exactly, you punk! Did you hear what you just said, did you hear that?"

"What?" Steve said, suddenly bewildered.

"That," Bucky said quietly, unable to stop smiling. "Is how I feel about you." Steve stared at him and his mouth hung open. He was at a loss for words.

"I love you," Bucky said, repeating after Steve, ticking things off on his fingers. "You shouldn't want to die. It wasn't your fault."

"I," Steve said.

"You don't take anything I wouldn't have given you in the first place. And you aren't a burden," Bucky finished. "Do you understand now? Do you get it?"

Steve honestly felt conflicted.

"So those things you said, you didn't mean it," Steve said and Bucky nodded.

"I'm trying to make you understand," Bucky said in a pleading voice. "That's what I want to scream at you. I want to take you by the shoulders and _shake _you sometimes! What you just said about me, apply it to yourself." Steve stared as he came down from the violent fear that clenched his heart upon thinking that Bucky felt these things. He didn't know how to feel. He didn't know if he _could_ apply it to himself. As soon as he tried, he rejected it.

Bucky looked over to the table as Steve sunk back down to the bed and he took the tupperware container left there and opened the lid. He looked at it and took a sip out of the corner.

"What is this?" He asked.

"Something you used to make me," Steve said quietly.

_I'm back! :D -BB_


	53. 44 Okay

44 Okay

Steve ran over the scenario again and again in his mind. Bucky had scared him when he said those things, he really had, and Steve realized now why they sounded so familiar because they were things Steve thought and said often.

And as much as he didn't like it, didn't like it at all, he realized now what Bucky was trying to do and it was clever and eye-opening. He thought about the things Bucky said, relived his own panic when he believed Bucky might have the same death wish as he did, and he was still angry to find out that he had been lied to.

But at the same time, it made a little bit of sense. Bucky had said his love for Steve was unconditional, and he remembered months ago, Natasha yelling at him after Bucky had been wiped that 'there's nothing you can do to make James hate you'. And he tried to believe it.

Because here was the problem. Here's what made it hard. Steve may have had all the proof in the world that he was loved and wanted and that he shouldn't die, but the hard part was translating that proof into something his heart could believe, could understand. He told himself time and time and time again. There's nothing you can do to make Bucky hate you. You aren't a burden. You can live. But the hardest part was believing those things inside him, but he thought maybe he was starting to. At least very slowly.

Steve sat on the edge of his bed, trying to cling to this feeling of being a little okay, and took Bucky's journal in his hands. He studied it and turned it and opened the worn pages.

Things are getting better, and I can talk to Steve now, Bucky wrote. There are no words for Natasha. She's wonderful. I don't remember much, but that hasn't stopped me from loving them and loving Steve all over again.

Steve repeated a mantra to himself.

You're not a burden, you're not a burden. There's nothing you could do to make James hate you.

He remembered growing up and being told he was worthless because he couldn't do much. He was struggling with all he had to turn that over in his mind. He didn't want to be suicidal. He didn't want to think himself better off dead.

And of course, because Bucky always saved him, because Bucky had practically come back from the dead to save him, the next line in his book made Steve's eyes sting with tears.

I don't know what I would have done without him, scrawled Bucky's handwriting. He's my best friend. And he was right, I need him. I don't know what I would have done.

When the doorbell rang, Steve jumped and snapped the journal closed in his hands. He walked to the door and Sharon was there.

"Oh good," she said. "I thought something might be wrong." Steve raised an eyebrow and Sharon shrugged and explained. "I was, uh," she said, and leaned forward to put her finger to the door beside them and tapped out h-e-l-l-o, then shrugged. "You didn't answer."

"I was busy," Steve replied.

"Your face is red," Sharon said and she stepped closer to him and he stepped back. Sharon looked concerned. "Are you okay?"

I'm trying to be, Steve thought.


	54. 45 Gouge

45 Gouge

_This chapter is special! If you're interested, you can listen to me read this chapter aloud. I can't add links, but if you go to soundcloud . com and add /blithebells/45-gouge to the end of the url, it'll take you to the file. Or, you can find this chapter with an active link on Wattpad. :)_

_I thought it would be fun to try. :) Tell me what you think! -BB_

Bucky woke up when the stinging in his face became too much. In confusion, he sat up and touched his cheek and when his hand came back, he could see red shining on the metal and he gasped.

"James?" Natalia said next to him, shifting, and Bucky looked over at her and used his hand to cover his face. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Bucky said and he reached out his free hand to touch her shoulder and reassure her, but as he held his hand out in front of him, he was horrified to find more blood caked under his fingernails. "It's noth-ooh!" He said in surprise and Natalia was already sitting up. She looked at him, confused, with his eyes wide and his prosthetic hand clapped over his right cheek, and she squinted.

"What's wrong?" She asked and when she reached up and took his hand gently away from his face, he let her. Her eyes widened, she pressed both hands over her mouth and Bucky could see more red spread across his left palm out of the corner of his eye. "James!" She cried. "Your face!"

Before Bucky knew it, Natalia was out of bed and the lights were on, yellow and unexpected, and Bucky blinked and turned around to see blood staining his pillowcase and down the front of his shirt.

"What have you done?" Natalia gasped.

"I-I don't…," Bucky said and he pulled himself out of bed and hurried to the bathroom and found in the mirror a James Buchanan Barnes with dark circles under his eyes and four long gouges, slow in healing, across his cheek. He looked down incredulously at his right hand with the drying red underneath his fingernails, and swallowed. Natalia appeared behind him, looking green.

The cuts weren't too deep, they finally found as Natalia patted a wet washcloth to Bucky's face. They had just bled profusely. Bucky looked in the mirror and estimated. Six minutes, maybe five, and counting. He told Natalia this and she frowned.

"Okay," she said. "Does it hurt?"

"No," Bucky lied. Natalia looked down and pressed her mouth together, then she leaned over the bathroom counter to dig around the medicine cabinet.

"We should get some neosporin on this before it closes," she said quietly and although Bucky thought it would be pointless, even redundant, he let her spread some on his face. He washed the blood off his hands while she did this, and let her help him out of his bloodstained undershirt.

"How did this happen," she asked when they had both stopped moving and she had stood up close to him, leaned in, and touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers, right underneath where he could feel the tingling of the wound sealing itself.

"I don't know," he replied quietly. "I must have done it in my sleep."

"What were you dreaming about?" Natalia asked and Bucky looked down tiredly and Natalia sighed and her hand slid down his bare chest and she leaned up to very gently kiss his mouth. "We have to change the sheets and your pillowcase," she said to him in a voice almost a whisper. "There are some clean ones in the hall closet. Would you get them? I'll clean up here."

"Alright," Bucky said and he stepped away from her reluctantly and walked out of the bathroom and out of the bedroom and into the dark hall where he found new sheets, clean and pressed and folded neatly, and he re-entered the bedroom silently to bring them back, but stopped at the door when he heard something from the bathroom. His heart sank and his shoulders slumped. Natalia was crying.

Bucky didn't know what to do. He could hear her taking deep breaths, trying to be quiet, and he waited a few moments for her to pull herself together before he walked back to the bathroom solemnly.

"Here," he whispered quietly and realized it was in Russian. "I'm sorry." There was an emptiness in the air about him, a certain defeatedness, and a heart so broken that the shards turned him up and cut him inside. He was deeply, deeply sad.

Natalia looked up at him and smiled sweetly, taking the new bedding from him.

"Thank you, darling," she replied, and brushed past him, back into the bedroom, and he followed her and helped her remake the bed.

Later, when the lights went back off and Natalia curled up next to Bucky, her head on his shoulder and her hand across his chest, they both lay there awake and it seemed to Bucky that she held him just a little tighter and pressed herself to him just a little closer. There was fear in her embrace. Bucky tried to swallow, tried to breath, and shakily, he kissed her head and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders.

Cut less than half an inch. Healing time, under five minutes. And he would have added, to the list in his head, _no scarring_, but when he looked back down to Natalia, hugging him so tight as though she thought he might drift away, he realized that wasn't quite true.


	55. 46 Accident

46 Accident

The next morning, Steve was there and he said nothing, just took Bucky by the shoulders and examined his face with a deep frown. He had gotten a call from Natasha earlier and he could see a tired look in Bucky's eyes and the heavy, dark lines under them. But there was no other evidence of a rough night because, as Steve knew, Bucky didn't scar.

"Why do you insist on checking?" Bucky said resentfully once Steve pulled away. "You both know I'm fine."

"Bucky, we need to talk about this," Steve said and he watched Bucky bristle.

"What's there to talk about?" He protested. "It was in my sleep, it was an accident."

"But the times it wasn't an accident," Steve said. "The times when you did it on purpose." The times that you've done so often it's becoming subconscious. Bucky may have thought Steve didn't notice his discrete downward glance at his right forearm, but Steve followed his eyes and swallowed.

"It's not a big deal," Bucky said.

"Yes," Steve said forcefully. "It is." Bucky clenched his jaw, growing tense with defensiveness. "Why, Buck?" Steve asked finally. "Why do you do this?"

"It was an accident," Bucky said.

"Answer me!" Steve cried. "Why!"

"I-I don't, I… Because I can?" Bucky cried back.

"But that doesn't make any sense!" Steve said. "Surely it hurts?" Bucky stared into Steve's face, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth pressed shut and after a while, he looked away and his face was contorted in pain, and he shook his head.

"No," he said. "Nu-uh, I'm not talking about this."

"I don't _get _it," Steve pleaded desperately. "You're so open with everything else."

"I'm open because I have to be," Bucky said, looking back at Steve's face. "Because I had nothing else to be. But I know how to stop it now, and I have enough of myself to have something to hide! I don't want to talk about it, I'll never want to talk about it! And… And that's it!"

Steve stared at Bucky and felt a torrent of emotion.

"Don't you feel like suffocating?" He asked breathlessly and Bucky stared at him and his eyebrows furrowed like suddenly, he was confused.

"I-I," he said. "What?"

"Nothing," Steve replied. "I'm worried about you. Natasha's worried about you." Bucky's face softened and he breathed in and out.

"I know," he said and began to blink hard. "I know."

Steve wished Bucky would talk, almost wanted to beg him, because not only was Steve truly worried for Bucky's health, but he took strength from Bucky's willingness to be open, from the way he owned his pain, owned the right to feel it. How could Steve talk if even Bucky couldn't?

Steve had thought he'd learned how to talk, but he also was under the impression that recovery was only an uphill incline and he didn't realize just how he could slip and fall. When he did slip soon after, he remembered Bucky and was confused and in pain and thought himself a failure.

Later that day, Steve turned these things over in his mind and considered them until Fury called again and he and Natasha both scrambled to prepare for a fight a few blocks away.

"Stay here," Natasha was telling Bucky in words between kisses as she hurriedly zipped up her suit and Steve turned away awkwardly as he finished putting on his armour, dreading the cold and the snow beginning to fall outside.

"But-" Bucky protested.

"_Stay. Here,_" Natasha interrupted and kissed him on the mouth again.

"Fine!" Bucky said.

"Anything to add, Steve?" Natasha called.

"Stay here!" Steve yelled over his shoulder as he pulled his helmet on and began to walk to the door.

"Be careful!" Bucky said back. Why bother? Steve thought. "Promise." Steve turned around, his shield in hand, and there was Bucky, staring intently into his face. "Promise me."

"I promise I'll be careful," Steve said.

"Promise me you'll come back alive," Bucky said.

"If you stay put," Steve said and Bucky ground his teeth in frustration before agreeing with a resentful, "Fine."

"Then I promise," Steve said and before they left, Natasha and Bucky shared one more frantic kiss and Steve grabbed Natasha and dragged her back out with him towards the attack.

He knew how to suffer silently. It hurt, but he was experienced in it and he thought he had begun to move past that, but suddenly, he felt sick to his stomach and he was sinking again.


	56. 47 Boom

47 Boom

Sometimes, there are low days. Bad Days, Bucky used to call them, and Steve thought he ought to adopt the phrase, with it's big, official, capital letters, because sometimes, there are days that are too bad to only be lowercase. Some days deserve capitals in order to properly demonstrate their horrendous and unlivable quality.

That day was one of those days. Relapses happen, and right when Steve was beginning to breathe, beginning to live, beginning to prove to himself that he wasn't worthless, he slipped and took in a lungful of cold, dark water. And he didn't know which way was up and he didn't know where he was and he couldn't even see the broken ice above him and he was thrashing wildly and waiting to feel Bucky's arms wrap around him and pull him out to a place where he could breathe, but the longer he kicked and the longer his chest burned, the more he was forced to realize that Bucky wasn't there this time.

Steve steadied himself, gasping, in the middle of the second RAID attack that week, throwing up his shield, trying to find the bombs in time before they went off.

There were less RAID attackers this time, but where there were less attackers, there were more bombs. And the city was still unable to completely recover from the last attack; large sections were off limits and under major construction to repair the damage, so Fury had put the available team, consisting of Steve, Natasha and Clint, under some pressure about DC damage control.

Of course, everything was moving as well as could be expected. Some explosives went off, but most were found. Clint disarmed them from afar, shooting accurate enough to sever the red wire yards away, and Natasha got to the ones he couldn't see. However, Steve found he was doing relatively little. He felt this great overwhelming wash over him, and this deep, digging fear. There had been a shift in him when he listened to Bucky's refusal to talk and suddenly, all the progress he'd made had been set back and he hated himself again.

Well… Given that there had been any progress to begin with. Steve looked at the gnawing hate and anxiety and shuddered because he recognized it so well. It seemed to him that it had never truly gone away, had hardly even subsided, and it was difficult for him to concentrate on anything else as bombs went off around him and the screaming in the streets and the screaming in his head all collided.

He heard Natasha underneath the din.

"One bomb left," she was saying. "We've nearly got them all."

"I promised Bucky," Steve said. Promised him I'd come back.

"You say something, Cap?" Clint said, but Steve had already spotted the last bomb. One of the remaining RAID terrorists was kneeling next to it, and he looked up and Steve could swear they made eye contact and the man was about to manually detonate the bomb

and

Steve tensed himself

and began to run into it.

I promised Bucky, Steve thought. I promised him. It's not too late to stop. But something kept Steve going, probably the fact that no matter what he promised, they would be happier without him and he would be happier gone, even as Natasha called back to him. He could see the explosion begin in a terrible burst of color and he could feel it, like a wall of heat and pressure and Steve thought he was close enough to the detonation to see his own feet off the ground and there was shrapnel in the air and he thought he saw blood and he smelled burning but he didn't think much more before his back his the ground and his head smacked the pavement painfully and he saw stars that faded into black.

And Steve saw death and he recognized it, like he had time and time and time before, and he slipped right into it as everything went black.

_I _really _don't want to scare anyone too badly, so let me just reassure you that it's not over yet. -BB_


	57. 48

When Steve crashed the plane in 1945, he expected to die. However, this was not the case, and Steve hit the ground with a jarring crash and he was thrown forward, out of his seat and into flying shards of glass in the dark, the plane nose-first into ice and water. Steve gasped and shuddered and tried to stand, tried to pull himself out of the wreckage, and found his legs like jello and his strength leaving him as he went into shock.

It was pitch black, and the air was thick with sharp cold, and Steve was finally able to drag himself away from the crushed cockpit and out into the quickly freezing belly of the plane, collapsing to the ground and trying to steady himself.

Steve was scared, and confused, and he didn't know why he was still alive. He could see nothing, even with his eyes open and his hand infront of his face. The cold was unbearable, worse than Brooklyn winters, and Steve was shivering so hard his teeth chattered.

He didn't want this, he hadn't asked for this, this wasn't part of the plan.

He hugged himself there on the ground, trying to conserve his air, trying to warm himself, although he didn't know why he did. Why bother, after all? It was silent, except for Steve's own breathing, and his occasional sobs as his emotions got the better of him. He could hear nothing but the plane creak and the harsh wind blowing outside and he considered trying to break out, but he knew he had a better chance inside the plane, no matter how small a chance that still might be and no matter how much that chance never really mattered in the end anyway.

He was supposed to be dead. He should have been dead. Everyone would think he was, and would they even search for him? Would they leave him, like… Like Steve had left Bucky? Steve swallowed. Everything inside him felt crushed.

He didn't know how long he was there, but he didn't sleep and he was starving and lonely and scared and cold.

Then, the cold began to get worse as Steve couldn't keep himself warm forever. His hands pressed to his face were icy and he began to realize he couldn't feel them. After a while, he couldn't move his fingers. His face grew numb. His joints grew stiff. Steve felt fear like he like thought he never would again, sitting there in the thick blackness as the cold began to claim him for itself because he was dying and he was scared and this time, he was dying completely alone.

He was just so afraid.

After a while, and Steve didn't know how long, he found himself hardly able to move and everything was slow, from his limbs to his very thought process.

Dying, Steve thought numbly. He didn't bother speaking, because there was no one there to hear and because he wasn't sure if he could. Freezing, Steve thought.

He thought of Bucky, at the bottom of that trench, and was almost comforted because at least in heaven, they'd be reunited.

Gonna die anyway, Steve thought as he laid on the ice and he hugged his shield to himself in that last attempt for something, anything to comfort him. For the best. Wasn't really meant to live.

This is for the…

Then, Steve felt warm. He was stiff and sore, but the warmth registered with him almost suddenly, like a shock, and he realized that he could breathe without freezing his lungs and he could no longer feel the cold, metal floor of the plane underneath him. He could see bright light even through his eyelids and it was such a contrast. Confused-he thought he had said hello to death-Steve opened his eyes and took a breath and nothing was ever the same.


	58. 49 Human

49 Human

There were flashes of light, and images with no sound.

FLASH

Natasha in his face surrounded by people open mouths

FLASH

jarring and moving light fuzzy

FLASH

He could hear screaming and sirens and there was no picture.

Then, there were no more images and no more sounds for a very long time, until finally, like a radio turning in, the fuzz and white noise subsiding, the volume rising, the incoherency slipped away and Steve could hear...

"I knew it, I should have been there, I should have followed him. Natalia, I'm supposed to protect him, I'm supposed to take care of him."

"Shh. Shush, come on, come here, it's okay. Shh, James, he's alive."

"But, but, I, oh, I-"

"I know, I know."

"What am I supposed to _do?!"_

"Oh, darling, if I knew…"

"I'm supposed to protect him. I'm supposed to… I'm supposed to take care of him, I'm his friend, I something something in Russian something something."

"Something something Russian mumbles."

"Groaning."

"More Russian. Shhh, James, shhh. Russian. Come on."

Steve listened to Natasha and Bucky carry on, things he couldn't understand, words he couldn't pick out, and after a while, he began to come to himself again, lying there with his eyes closed. He felt pain, soreness in his back, burning down his front, and hotness. He groaned in pain and Bucky yelled something and Steve could hear Natasha calming him before Steve opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling.

"I'm," he mumbled. "M'not dead." Steve could hear Bucky starting to panic and he looked over at him to see him with his face red, eyes heavy like he hadn't slept in a week, nearly collapsed in Natasha's arms, staring at Steve. "I thought I was… Dying, I…"

There was a silence for a moment and then Bucky let out a breath and pulled away from Natasha and collapsed into the chair beside Steve's bed. Steve watched him lean over his knees and put his face in his hands. Natasha bit her bottom lip and turned away. Steve was silent.

"You promised," Bucky said hollowly, heartbrokenly, into his hands after a while and Steve swallowed. "You promised."

"I know, I…," Steve said. "There was a bomb…" Bucky laughed bitterly and Steve realized he hadn't heard his genuine laugh in a while. Not since Thanksgiving, anyway.

"Yeah!" He cried. "Yeah, I know there was a bomb! It's pretty clear now, there were some bombs! We had to restart your fricking heart, you were..." Bucky trailed off and put his face back in his hands.

"Bucky," Steve said and Bucky looked up at him and Steve realized he didn't have much more to say. Everything hurt. "I'm just… I'm sorry."

"I don't know what to do," Bucky replied and Steve looked forward and tried to close his eyes. "Are you gonna talk about it?" Steve shook his head slowly against his pillow and Bucky mumbled a resigned, "Okay."

Steve felt a gentle hand on the front of his shoulder, the shoulder that he didn't feel bandages wrapped around pain, and he opened his eyes to see Natasha there and she knelt down and kissed the top of his head sadly, then he and Bucky watched her whirl around and leave the hospital room. Bucky sighed and put his head back down again and Steve wondered about the sadness in Natasha's eyes, the way she'd looked at him like he _had_ in fact died and she was just waiting for the funeral now and Steve felt gutted.

They sat there for a while, in silence, and Steve was trying not to think about the pain, trying not to think about the bomb, trying not to think about the suicide, and amid his desperation to avoid the pain in his body and the pain in his heart, he didn't notice Bucky take his head up from his hands and look down at them solemnly.

"I," Bucky said quietly, in a whisper, and Steve almost didn't hear. "I do it because sometimes… I still hate myself." Steve looked over, alarmed, and watched Bucky wring his hands and then stop and run his metal fingers over the back of his flesh wrist.

"What," Steve said in a breath and Bucky pressed his mouth together.

"You asked." He said coldly. "So I'm telling you." And Steve began to realize what this was, that this is what he'd been begging Bucky for. This was the explanation, previously not given, that had began Steve's sinking because he so desperately needed the strength from seeing Bucky be strong. Steve saw in his mind that burst of light and sound and pain that he had thought would remedy his survivor's guilt.

Meanwhile, Bucky turned his hand over and stared at it. He continued.

"I still feel like I deserve it sometimes. Its like I have to remind myself that I'm not allowed to be happy. I'm reminding myself that I'm-" Bucky stopped and swallowed. "I, uh, I'm…" Bucky threw his hands up then and shifted in his chair and his eyes were growing red around the edges. "Not, uh, human." He cleared his throat and spoke like he was trying not to throw up. "Anymore."

Steve stared at Bucky because he didn't know what to say.

"You're human," he said quietly and Bucky's face hardened and he shook his head.

"Don't," he said darkly, then his face changed from hardened into fallen and his voice gained an edge of sullen resignation. "Don't." There was another second of silence, thick and heavy-laden silence, and then Bucky, looking green, pushed himself to his feet and started for the door.

"Wait," Steve said and Bucky stopped and turned around and looked at him and Steve saw the Winter Soldier in the set of his mouth, the stoniness in his eyes. He couldn't imagine how Bucky could be feeling. "Next time, uh," Steve said. "Next time you feel like that, don't cut yourself up. Okay, just find me, please, I'll help you instead." Bucky looked down and his brow furrowed.

"Can you?" He said. "Are either of us really in a position to help each other anymore?"

"Bucky," Steve said and almost bit his tongue, but because he felt like it was important, he continued anyway and hoped Bucky wouldn't take it the wrong way. Steve said, "what's the point of escaping the people who tortured you if you're just going to do their job for them." Bucky's mouth opened and he stared at the ground and Steve could almost see the pain inside him, and then Bucky ground his teeth together and whirled around and left with a haste and Steve was alone.


	59. 50 Lonely

50 Lonely

Steve began to catalog his injuries. His right cheek stung and he could feel a square of gauze taped there. Under his sheets, he found his upper chest heavily bandaged and more white squares taped to the inside of his arm. It hurt to lay down and put pressure on his back, and with some turning and uncomfortable shifting, he could see in a mirror across the hospital room, big black bruises painted across his back. He ran his hand over what he could reach across his shoulder blade and he felt lines of stitching. There was more black everywhere, up his arms and down his legs and the pain was overwhelming. Finally, exhausted, Steve lowered himself again carefully on the bed and tried not to hurt himself because everything was sore.

His first thought was that everything would be easier if he had in fact died, but after thinking this, he realized the sentiment inside the words was hollow for the very first time and that maybe he was reciting this to himself out of morbid habit and he didn't quite know what to think.

Sharon came in later, and when she saw him, she began to weep.

"Sharon, it's okay," Steve tried to comfort her, and when he did, she cried harder and collapsed into the chair Bucky had left.

"I almost didn't believe him, you know," she finally managed to say through her tears and Steve frowned, looking at her.

"What are you talking about?" He asked and she motioned to him.

"He said he was scared of you trying to take your own life," she said and Steve swallowed. "Natasha says you ran into a bomb blast."

"I, uh," Steve said. "Thought I could stop it in time."

"That's not what Natasha says!" Sharon cried. "She said it was obviously already too late and you were just looking for a good excuse to die." Steve didn't know what to say and found himself speechless, as he often did, because what she was saying was true.

"It was a Bad Day," he replied quietly.

"You're right!" Sharon said. "It was a horrible day, it was a really bad day!"

"You don't understand," Steve replied and Sharon pursed her lips and blinked back tears.

"No," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't." There was a pause in the conversation as Sharon tried to regain her composure, pulling tissues out of her purse to wipe her eyes. Then, she seemed to remember something and rustled around in her bag more until she'd brought out folded clothes for Steve, and some books from his shelf. "Here," she said, putting them on his nightstand and Steve reached out with his non-bandaged arm to look through them.

"These are my things," he commented, confused, and Sharon shrugged sadly.

"I wanted to help," she said. "Thought you'd need these." Then, "Bucky gave me permission, to take them for you, I mean. I thought you'd want me to ask him, rather than anyone else. And the landlord agreed to let me in." Steve left the things there and smiled weakly for her.

"Thank you," he said. "I appreciate that."

"I'm sorry," Sharon said, like it had burst out of her. "I'm sorry, about what I said, about earlier."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked.

"Aunt Peggy's funeral," Sharon said. "I was cruel to you, when you tried to be there for me."

"It's fine," Steve said. "I understand."

"It's not fine," Sharon cried, suddenly loud. "Because I'm lonely, too! I get it, Steve, I know what it's like to be alone!"

They looked at each other and Sharon breathed in shakily in the quiet.

Steve reached out to the table beside them and tapped out i-k-n-o-w.


	60. 51 Sick

51 Sick

Sharon _had_ asked permission to enter Steve's apartment from Barnes and he, in a panicked mess after Steve's accident, nodded to her an absent yes. The landlord was compliant, too. It was amazing what one could do, Sharon realized, as a former SHIELD agent with an injured superhero.

She tried not to feel too uncomfortable having entered Steve's apartment without him, and the silence and the lived-in appearance, so abruptly interrupted, was almost eerie. Sharon only wanted to help, she wanted to do something for him to make it easier. Because, after all, she _had_ to believe it now, his… Suicidal tendencies. She had to face it now, as much as she hadn't wanted to. Steve was in danger and he was compromised and really, it was all Sharon could do not to burst into tears.

Because Steve wasn't a story her great aunt used to tell her. He wasn't Prince Charming. He was a person and he was still someone she hardly knew, despite how many stories she could recall of his perfection, and he was facing the aftermath of all that he'd seen.

Peggy had told her so many stories, all of Steve saving people and making smart decisions and charming everyone with his sweetness. Sharon had only ever heard stories of his valor, his wonderfulness.

But this, this was not a story of wonderfulness. Sharon knew what she was witnessing, what story she was watching unfold in the apartment next to hers, and it was one of destruction.

In all honesty, Sharon had never believed that there could _be _a story of Steve Rogers' destruction. She'd been too enthralled in the fanfare to imagine the aftermath.

But regardless, there Sharon stood in Steve's apartment, realizing that the stories she knew might only be one thing-stories-and she packed some of his things for him. Clean clothes, for when he got better, and the drawing notebooks off his coffee table to help him pass the time.

By Steve's bed, Sharon found a small, leather bound journal, and wondered if it was personal to him, if he'd want it. It looked worn, and when she picked it up and turned it over, she saw the pages on the side made thick and warped by ink and, maybe it's another drawing book? she thought. So she opened it to check.

It was not a drawing book, Sharon realized, and it also wasn't Steve's handwriting. It was messy and black and frantic and Sharon's mouth dropped. But it was open now, she'd seen words, and she stared.

He doesn't know what it's LIKE to lose EVERYTHING because hes wrong i have

nothingNOTHING

They took EVERYTHING from me laid me out on a table and even took my humanity

I **literally **make myself sick. All those murders, all those years, things done with my hands and Steve says it's not my fault but when I'm puking in the bathroom at 3 AM because I had nightmares of ripping people's throats out, it's hard to believe him.

Sharon snapped the book closed in her hands, her mouth still open, stomach turning, and she felt at once as though she had seen too much because she had walked in on some terrible secret she wasn't supposed to know. This was… This was _not_ Steve's.

Temptation gripped Sharon to sit down and read the entire thing, or at least read more, because now all she could see in her mind was Barnes's-no, Bucky's-dead eyes, and she wanted to know more, she wanted to understand.

But she couldn't. It wasn't her book and they weren't her secrets and he wasn't her friend.

Instead, Sharon set the book back down where she had found it and hurried out of the apartment and empty brown eyes and scrawled black words haunted her.


	61. 52 Bruises

52 Bruises

_I cannot believe I didn't post this yesterday. I uploaded it into my document manager and then never did anything else. I'm sorry! And if I had the time and the material to properly make up for it, I would! I hope you can enjoy this anyway!_

Sam was sitting in the corner when Steve woke again. Steve grimaced in pain as the medications were wearing off and tried to mutter a polite hello. Sam looked over with his quiet, unassuming smile that suddenly felt forced and leaned over into Steve.

"Hey," he said quietly. "How are you feeling?"

Steve didn't know how to respond. He wasn't feeling good.

"Fine," he said and Sam sat back.

"Yeah, you _look _fine. Hey, wanna hear a joke, I've got a good one," Sam said and Steve almost smiled.

"What," he said.

"What's red, white and black and blue?" Sam asked and Steve was already grinning and starting to laugh.

"Let me guess," Steve said as he laughed. "Is the answer 'Captain America'?" Sam smiled and laughed and Steve treasured the brightness in his eyes.

"That was too easy," he said and Steve just grinned. There was a lull then in the conversation and Steve's smile fell and he looked back down to where he could see that black and blue up and down his own arms and torso, and the beginnings of red burns where the gauze across his chest was starting to loosen and he felt the happiness start to slip away.

It was ethereal, happiness, and Steve didn't think it was even attainable anymore. It was like smoke. He could see it in front of him, but as soon as he reached out his hands, he went right through. All that was really real, all that Steve really knew, was grounding and sinking sadness. He was sick of it, sure, but he didn't know how to hold and keep the happiness. Like the smile that fell off his face as soon as the room went quiet, happiness just came and went too quickly and sometimes, it seemed like the work and price required to enjoy it was just too high. Steve didn't have anything to give anymore in the pursuit of happiness. He was all out.

"I thought," Steve started, just talking, not necessarily to Sam, not necessarily to himself, just putting words out there because the sadness in the silence was too acute. "I thought I was getting… A little bit better. I guess I was wrong." Sam was quiet for a moment.

"No," he said. "No, don't tell yourself that."

"If I had made any progress," Steve said and stared forward. "Any at all, I wouldn't be here today."

"That's not true," Sam protested and he reached out and touched Steve's bruised hand and Steve winced and Sam frowned. "Relapses are a part of getting better. It means you're getting closer." When Steve didn't respond, Sam continued. "Happens to everyone, okay? Everyone, even me. It's just a part of improvement, I promise. And they'll become fewer and fewer as you get better and better and maybe one day, you won't ever feel this way again, but don't let yourself believe that because you slipped one time, you haven't made so much progress because you _have_."

"I thought promising Bucky would keep me alive," Steve said. "Not even that."

"Steve," Sam said and his voice grew adamant. "No one is going to keep you alive except yourself."

"I don't think I can do it," Steve replied and Sam swallowed audibly.

"Don't misunderstand me," he said. "You're not doing it alone. You have friends, and people who understand. But _you_ are in control and it's _you_ who calls the final shots. We can walk with you, but we can't make your decisions for you. When you live, it will be because you chose to, okay?"

"Okay," Steve said.

"Now," Sam said and settled back again in his chair. "Let me ask again. How are you feeling?" Steve felt the shape of 'fine' on his lips, but he swallowed it away.

Breathe, breathe, breathe

Ready

Set

_Breathe_

"Like I'm sick of death and sick of being scared of death and sick of thinking I should be dead," Steve whispered.

"Good," Sam replied. "Good, be sick of it. One day, you won't ever have to deal with it again."

A few hours later, Sam stood and had to leave and he stopped at the door and looked back at Steve, who's pain medicine was again beginning to kick in, and he spoke.

"You're a good guy, Steve, and you deserve to live," Sam said. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"Kay," Steve said sluggishly, but the words meant a lot to him and even though he was feeling sleepy and slow, he tried with every facility to apply them.

"And by anyone," Sam clarified, holding the door open now. "That includes yourself." Steve swallowed and blinked slowly. He nodded.

"Okay," he whispered back and then Sam was gone.


	62. 53 Tapper

53 Tapper

Later that evening, as Steve woke again, his small hospital room felt crowded. Bucky was pacing at the foot of his bed, his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground, and both Sharon and Natasha were there. Natasha had taken the chair and Sharon was standing in the corner with her hands folded. Steve watched them silently until Natasha noticed that his eyes were open.

"Good morning," she teased and smiled at Steve. The clock said 8:41. Steve thought it was still evening.

"Hi," Steve croaked.

"Guess what," Natasha said warmly, quietly. Bucky had stopped pacing and Sharon had stepped closer to the bed. "The doctors said you can go home in a few days."

"But you're staying in bed," Bucky added firmly and Natasha nodded her agreement.

"At least you'll be home," she added. "Especially on a holiday, it's almost the New Year."

"Happy New Year," Steve said.

"Merry Christmas," Bucky replied wearily and then he picked up something off the corner of Steve's bed and walked over to hand it to him. "Just realized it was, um, Christmas Eve, so I ran out and got you something."

It wasn't wrapped. Bucky had handed him a new box of colored pencils, a nice brand with a large selection of colors. Bucky shrugged, cramming his hands back into his pockets again.

"You haven't been drawing lately," Bucky said quietly, like an explanation. "Or much of anything, really. Thought, um, you might have run out or something."

"Thank you," Steve said and he really did appreciate it, he appreciated it a lot, but he hadn't run out. He'd just found he'd lost the will to create. "I didn't get you anything."

"Don't need anything," Bucky replied and Steve remembered them talking, about how the things they really wanted couldn't be bought. How they both would give almost anything to be happy, to just be happy. To relearn how to capture that smoke and keep it from fading away as soon as the silence came. Then, "Steve, I don't… Is there anything I can do? Anything I can say? I'd give up anything."

"For what," Steve said.

"You to be happy," Bucky replied. "Steve, I don't resent you. Okay, does that help? I don't resent you for being sick when we were kids, or for being sick now, or for anything. I'm glad to make sacrifices for you, just like you were for me."

"_Resent_ you?" Sharon exclaimed suddenly and stepped closer to Steve, standing close to Bucky. She threw her hands up. "Resent you? Does that bother you? Who could resent you, Steve-we love you."

"Thank you," Steve said quietly.

"What are friends for," Natasha replied quietly from the other side of his bed and she smiled at him. "Happy Christmas, Steve."

"Neal was the same way," Sharon said nostalgically and folded her arms around herself. "My old boyfriend, I mean, his name was Neal Tapper. He was so selfless. He would have loved to know you, Steve." And Steve was focusing on her words, really, he was, but he watched out of the corner of his eye, Bucky suddenly grow very pale and Steve got the distinct impression that something was wrong. Bucky glanced at Sharon.

"What did you say," he said in a hushed voice.

"What?" Sharon said and Bucky started to move himself away. Steve watched him begin to rub his hand.

"Neal… Tapper, you said… Neal Tapper," Bucky said. "That's what you said?" Sharon stared.

"What, yes," she said, bewildered. "Yes, I did, what are you…"

"Oh no," Steve said.

"Natalia," Bucky said and Natasha was already standing and suddenly, the very atmosphere of the room shifted and Steve felt alarmed. Already, he could put together what had happened and he watched as Bucky grabbed Natasha, looking ill, and took her outside to talk, and Steve felt anxious. No, he thought. No, no, no.

"Natalia, I, she," Bucky stammered in Russian and Natalia attempted to calm him down as they stood outside of Steve's hospital room, whispering.

"What's wrong?" She asked and Bucky was starting to shake, out of fear, out of anxiety, he couldn't be sure.

"I killed him," Bucky said, and then rattled off four other names that he remembered from that mission. He could practically still see it, all the details he didn't want to remember, the distinct, painful emptiness, the weight of the rifle on his shoulder and the target below. "I killed him, it was me, I killed her boyfriend, I shot him. Neal Tapper. I remember it."

"Oh," Natalia gasped. "Oh, James."

"I have to face her," Bucky said in fear. "I have to tell her what I've done."

"James," Natalia said and Bucky swallowed.

"She needs to know, but I…" And Bucky felt his stomach turn, his knees go weak. His mouth was suddenly dry.

All he could hear inside him was 'Codename: Winter Soldier' and all he could see were a million different kills with a million different names and he had to remember this one.

Bucky burst back into the room and he saw Sharon and he looked into her face and he just blurted it because he knew no other way to say it, just spoke loudly and he was trembling.

He was just so sorry.

"I killed Neal Tapper in 2012. I killed him, Sharon," Bucky said and Natalia behind him was silent and Sharon's face was stunned and Steve looked crushed under the black bruises in his face and the stitches on his right cheek and the silence was almost as brash as the shouting and Bucky knew, he _knew_ he deserved whatever she dished out to him.

But in the end, Sharon was able to close her mouth and there were tears running down her face and when Natalia grabbed his shoulders and pulled him out of the doorway, Sharon left out of it briskly, walking fast down the hospital halls until she turned a corner and Bucky couldn't see her anymore.

"I'm sorry," he said brokenly and the words formed in English in his head and tasted like Russian coming out of his mouth. "I'm so sorry."

_You guys have no idea how much I wanted to fit cheesy, festive Christmas sweaters somewhere in here, but it didn't quite match the mood of the novel. XD I just thought I'd share the idea and maybe you can imagine it yourself and smile. -BB_


	63. 54 Bedrest

54 Bedrest

Steve was positively coddled when he was brought home. He was ordered, both by his doctor and multiple times by Bucky, to stay put and rest. Natasha brought him blankets and pillows and Sharon hovered by awkwardly, saying, do you need anything?

No, I'm fine.

Really, if you need something...

Sharon, please.

Okay, but if you need anything at all, anything.

He wasn't sure where Bucky was then. Natasha said, in discrete words, that he was avoiding Sharon and that he was back at his apartment, trying to pull together something for Steve to eat. Steve put his head back down on his pillow and sighed and said okay again.

That night, when everyone was gone, Steve heard Bucky knock and let himself in. He entered Steve's room with a big tupperware bowl with a lid and he stood at the end of the bed, holding it in both hands and looking at Steve.

"Hi," Steve said and Bucky swallowed and pressed his mouth together and looked down at the bowl in his hands.

"That stuff you made me once," Bucky said. "I should have remembered it."

"What?" Steve said and Bucky screwed his face up in frustration.

"You made me soup," he said.

"Oh," Steve said. "It's fine if you don't remember. You're not going to be able to remember everything."

"I know," Bucky said. "Just the stuff I don't want to remember." He cleared his throat and swallowed again, and then thrust the bowl forward until Steve took it from him. "It doesn't taste like the way you made it," he said. "Something's missing, I dunno, I tried all day. Natalia's angry because I used up all the chicken broth from her food storage. And it's still not right." Steve smiled a little up at Bucky.

"Tasha?" He said. "Mad at _you_?" Bucky smiled a little back and shrugged.

"Well, she's not happy, at least," he said. Then, "Sorry about the soup."

"Don't be," Steve said. "I really appreciate it. Sorry about the, uh, jumping into bombs." Bucky looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he stood there in silence and his face grew dark and finally, he looked away. "I was sort of… Making a joke," Steve said and Bucky nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I know," he said and then he looked at Steve and shrugged. "You gonna be okay if I go back home?"

"Yeah," Steve said and Bucky nodded and began backing out.

"Get some rest," he instructed gently. "Feel better."

_Maybe I'll have to post inconsistently, but that doesn't mean I can't post something small in between hiatuses. I'm nearly ready to bring back consistent posting again! :)_

_[In response to StephanieSum, who left a very sweet Guest review with questions I need to answer, I_ do_ typically post every single day, Sundays included. However, given that I'm in school, I've been having a more difficult time being consistent, so sometimes, I have to take breaks in order to keep writing and catch myself up. :) And as for updating on General Conference and Stake Conference, I actually have to admit that these were coincidences. XD Normally, if I was able, I would have posted on those days as well._

_I'm glad you're liking it and __I'm excited to see another LDS member here! :) Thanks for commenting!] -BB_


	64. 55 Red

55 Red

Bucky felt everything in slow motion and felt all the pain magnified as the bullet tore through his chest and lodged there and he hit the ground hard on his left and he could see the sparks and the metal tear up against the pavement. Pieces of his ripped prosthetic tore at him through his shirt as he collapsed and he could only half-way move it and there was so much blood, it was gushing out of his chest and he couldn't breathe suddenly. His jaw had ground together when he'd hit the ground, he could taste blood and he thought he'd cracked one of his teeth, maybe broken a rib in the fall, and there was so much blood, it was in a puddle over everything. He could hear screaming and Sharon knelt over him and he looked up at her was suddenly scared what she'd do to him as the pain was beginning to steal his consciousness from him. He wanted Natalia, or Steve, but it was Sharon there, with blood in her hair, and he saw her face, scared, and then he felt the heels of her palms over the gunshot wound in his chest and when she began to press, the pain burst like light and he dissolved into it, screaming until he couldn't see anymore.

Earlier that day, before the gunshot and before Bucky's screaming, the Avengers had been called to another fight. Steve stayed in bed at home, battered on the inside and the outside and fast asleep, because Bucky insisted he not even be disturbed.

"I can go in his stead," Bucky said to Fury over the speakerphone. "I'll do it for him." However, as expected, he had been furiously denied by Natalia, who insisted he not see any action he didn't have to. So Natalia and Clint went out go defend Earth alone and Bucky anxiously paced until he couldn't anxiously pace any more and then he followed them, wrapping himself up in his winter coat and hood and strapping his sniper rifle to his back.

The events aforementioned, however, took place when Sharon joined the fight. Upon hearing about the desperation, she had called Fury and ran out to take Steve's place, knives in her sleeves and guns holstered to her waist because Sharon was a field agent and she may not work for SHIELD anymore, but she could still put up a fight and she could tell when people needed her help. She would take Steve's place

Bucky watched her join from the high window of a building where he was covering Natalia's back, letting himself sink back down to that place he hated and trying to make use of the skills that had damned him. He watched Sharon and soon found himself covering her too. And she was good, he learned, great, even. Of course, she wasn't Natalia, but she could hold her own, and the Winter Soldier watched her with admiration and surprise as she stood back to back with two Avengers and fought valiantly.

She backed herself up near his window, just a floor underneath him, and the Winter Soldier took the risk of giving away his position to lean down and watch her. And these are the events that transpired.

The Winter Soldier saw from the right side, an attacker that Sharon Carter didn't see. He tried to yell, and she only looked up, confused. He tried to shoot down the attacker, but it was too late, and there was a bullet heading straight for Sharon and so the Winter Soldier did the one thing at that point that he could do. He dropped his rifle and climbed up on the window sill and dove down, one fluid, instinctual motion, screaming at Sharon to move, and when, stunned, she didn't, he landed on her and shoved her out of the way as best as he could. WHAM-there was the bullet and Bucky skidded to the ground, the pavement peeling up the paint and the plates on his arm until they were jagged edges of metal to stab him and he could feel the bullet go in and sink and stop and when Sharon put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, looking around, screaming now for help, she turned back to find Bucky Barnes blacked out under her hands, and red coming up through her fingers.


	65. 56 Beginning

56 Beginning

No one wanted to tell Steve that it was Bucky in the hospital, having a bullet dug out of his heart, because Steve was supposed to rest and relax and not think anymore about death, but who could keep a secret from him in the first place? Given that walking was painful still and Steve groaned in pain to even sit up, Natasha and Sam made him swear that he'd stay put.

Steve was a whirlwind of questions.

"Is he okay? What even happened? Who was shooting at him? Is it too deep? He'll heal in a few days, right? Ask him for me, I think he can estimate? He doesn't like hospitals, get him back soon, make sure he's not miserable," Steve was saying and Natasha rolled her eyes to Sam.

"We're making him as comfortable as possible," Natasha said.

"Is he alone right now?" Steve asked. "You can't leave him alone, not in a hospital." Sam avoided Steve's eyes then, and then shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged.

"He's not alone," he said. "Sharon's there." There was a silence.

"Sharon _hates_ Bucky," Steve said and Sam shrugged.

"She's not left his side," he said. "She refuses."

"That makes no sense," Steve replied.

"He took a bullet for her, Steve," Natasha said and she turned and sat on Steve's bed next to him. "He saved her."

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Sharon sat by Bucky's bed, leaning over her folded legs and staring at her phone to pass time. Bucky felt dull pain in his chest as he came back into consciousness, and he opened his eyes slowly and frowned to find himself in a hospital.

"Where's Steve," Bucky muttered and Sharon looked up and over and pressed her mouth together.

"Just me right now," she said quietly. "Steve's still hurt, remember? He can't get up, but he'd want to be here, Bucky." Bucky looked her up and down.

"Why are you here?" He asked and Sharon gave him a withering look.

"You saved my life," she said and then she looked away and her eyes softened a little. "I'm not a complete asshole, Barnes."

"Well…," Bucky replied quietly. "Thanks."

Bucky inspected the damage and found himself again with only a scarred metal socket on his left and a patch of gauze over a spot of intense, concentrated pain in his chest and when he peeled it up, he found red skin and stitches.

"Where's my arm," Bucky said and he was grateful that Sharon sat on his right and he didn't have to see her stare at the disfiguration.

"Your girlfriend has it," she replied and looked back up at him. "It was pretty torn apart." Then, "What happened to you?"

"What do you mean," Bucky said tiredly.

"How did you lose it?" Sharon asked and Bucky looked over at her and sighed.

"The war," he said. "It got ripped off when I fell into a ravine."

"I'm sorry," Sharon said and Bucky just nodded and shrugged his one shoulder.

"It happens in wars," he said. "I can live with it."

Hours passed and Sharon came and went and Bucky laid there and stared at the ceiling and hated hospitals until finally once, when Sharon was back, Bucky looked over at her in the silence and gathered up the courage to say something that had been on his mind.

"I'm sorry about Neal, Sharon," Bucky said and his voice was a whisper. "Truly, I am." He watched Sharon take a deep breath in and let it out. The tension in the air changed. Sharon folded her arms around her body tightly. Bucky didn't think she'd expected it to be brought up again. There was another long pause and Bucky waited in it.

"Did you make him suffer?" She asked quietly and Bucky felt the stab of accusation in her words. Part of him wanted to defend himself, remind her that she didn't understand, tell her how long it took to learn not to blame himself, how he still struggled, how it wasn't his fault-it was Hydra's. But he swallowed back the words that would have made _him_ feel better and tried to answer her question.

"It was clean," he admitted. "Fast. He wouldn't have felt a thing, didn't even see it coming." Sharon swallowed loudly and let out a breath and she stood and then sat back down and turned away from him, staring at the wall. Bucky wished he had more to say, more to tell her, words to make it better.

And it was still hard not to blame himself. Looking at the way Sharon's shoulders shook, seeing first hand the way the things he was forced to do affected people, it made him ache. It made him hate. He had no other words.

"You may have saved my life, but I think you're a monster," Sharon whispered and then she stood and looked down at him, red eyes and arms wrapped around herself tightly, and began to walk towards the door. There wasn't any anger in her eyes then, or resentment. Only sadness and fear and Bucky felt her words resonate with the same accusations he made against himself in his head and felt ill.

"Wait," he said quietly and sat forward, reaching out with the only hand he had. "Wait, please." Sharon stopped and turned and was staring at him expectantly and Bucky tried to breathe.

"Look," he said. "Look, I… Thought I didn't owe you anything. And maybe I don't owe you everything, Natalia says I shouldn't have to defend myself at every turn, and I don't want to, but Sharon… I think I owe you at least this. An explanation." He gestured back towards the chair she had been sitting and he looked at her with desperate eyes. "Would you just let me explain?"

Sharon studied his face, then back to where he was gesturing with open arms back to the chairs, and finally seemed to judge him trustworthy enough. With a suspicious glare, Sharon followed Bucky's pointing back to her seat, holding back tears, and sat back down. There was a pause and Sharon stared at Bucky and she looked scared.

"What are you going to tell me?" She whispered and Bucky swallowed.

"Is it okay if I start at the beginning?" He asked.


	66. 57

57

The Winter Soldier woke with an uncomfortable start as everything that was cold was suddenly hot, like burning, and he panicked in an instant and tried to move, but found he'd been restrained.

"Hold still," he heard and everything was a blur and he looked over to see a person in a coat and felt a needle break into his right shoulder. "Relax." The Winter Soldier couldn't relax. Fear surged through him in the form of adrenaline and he lay there, strapped to a table and the needle came out and the Winter Soldier's straps were undone. He scrambled off the table and collapsed to the floor and found himself in a state of muscular atrophy, shaking and unused to standing. Everything was sore.

"Pull him up," a voice said. "Sit him down. He'll be fine soon." The Winter Soldier felt hands on him, grabbing his chest and under his armpits and hauling him to his feet and he was dragged over into a chair where he struggled to regain his balance and felt slowly his strength returning to him. There was a person in front of him.

"Wipe him," the person said. "Then, we'll start." The Winter Soldier was pushed back down and there were more restraints and he was confused and scared and positively overwhelmed and when the lights began to go off in his head again, he screamed.

The pain was agonizing.

There was black.

The Winter Soldier opened his eyes and everything was fuzzy and he felt a dull, throbbing headache and a weakness everywhere. He barely noticed handlers pushing him upright and he stared forward, not sure what he was seeing. There was nothing in his head but pain.

"My name is Alexander Pierce," a man's voice said and the Winter Soldier swallowed. He felt fear and he didn't know why. "We've met before." The Winter Soldier looked up slowly at this person he'd met before and only felt scared as he looked into his face. He didn't know why. "I tell you what to do and you do it. Is that clear?" The Winter Soldier stared. "I said is that clear."

"Clear," the Winter Soldier said and was surprised to hear his own voice grainy and painful to use and to hear. He hadn't spoken in some time.

"There's a group of people who are coming very close to information we don't want them to have," Pierce said and the Winter Soldier looked up at him and listened. "You're going to kill them." Then, to the Winter Soldier's handlers, he said, "Get him ready. I don't want this to last more than a few hours."

Pierce left and the Winter Soldier was dragged to his feet and dressed. They outfitted him in black leather with straps and gun holsters and pockets and it wasn't comfortable, but he knew nothing else. Then, a mask over his mouth, and goggles, and he didn't stop to realize just how much he hated that. He hated the way it was hard to breathe and he hated the way everything was darker in the goggles and he hated the way it all clicked together over his face like a muzzle around the mouth of a dangerous animal.

But of course, he didn't consciously think all these things. He'd think them later, when he was free enough to use the words and brave enough to face his own feelings.

Then, the Winter Soldier was told the names of the people he was to find and kill.

There was a long list of names.

Neal Tapper Neal Tapper Neal Tapper

The Winter Soldier was taken onsite to some warehouse he didn't recognize and told what to expect.

Three men, four women. Far left door. Don't let them leave alive.

And then his handlers shut the doors and left him behind and he was expected to wreak murderous havoc on the poor SHIELD agents who stumbled into a locked room with him. It would be a bloodbath, a horror movie. The Winter Soldier found high ground and squatted behind several large crates and waited.

The short story is that the agents came and that Bucky killed them all.

The long story is that he sat there for hours.

He didn't know how long, he lost track of time. Not that he had been keeping track anyway. Time was relative to the Winter Soldier, and it rarely mattered. But he sat there until his feet fell asleep and he had to try and massage the blood back into them and he sat there until dark came and he never wondered whether or not the agents were coming at all because he was told that this was where he should stay and this was the job he should do. No questions.

Hours later, after the Winter Soldier had sat and sat and sat, he heard noises and he looked over the crates and saw his targets enter the warehouse. The Winter Soldier backed up into shadow, drowning himself in darkness, and he waited until they came closer and lifted his rifle to his eyes.

Neal Tapper.

He died first. He was the biggest man there and he looked like a threat, so he was the first to go. The Winter Soldier fired and the sound was so subtle, it barely disturbed the talking agents until the bullet entered the back of Neal Tapper's skull and came out the front and he dropped dead on the ground.

It must have been painless, Bucky thought later. He didn't see it coming, he wasn't scared. He was just alive one minute and dead the next. If there was any ideal way to be murdered, that was it.

It wasn't important to Bucky's story as he told Sharon, so he didn't mention it, but the rest of the mission was a sitting duck hunt. The remaining agents scattered and the Winter Soldier pursued them. None of them stood a chance and once there was a bullet in the head of every one, his handlers returned for him. At headquarters, they undressed him and cleaned the blood off his face and out of his hair. They didn't touch him unless they had to and he realized then, as he'd realize again and again and again, that he wished he could be touched. And then, without another word, he was wiped again and disorientedly crammed into cryostasis and Bucky tried to be gentle when he told Sharon. He tried to dance around the painful things, tried not to think too hard about the way he could see it all again in his mind perfectly, both for her sake and for his. He was careful.

His hand still trembled when he finished.

Sharon listened raptly to Bucky's story. He told her what she needed to know, censored the way he remembered red splattering, left out his distinct longing to be touched. He tried to tell her some of the painful things, the things she needed to understand and what she needed to understand was that he was miserable and he was abused and he made no decisions whatsoever. She needed to know how it happened and she needed to know that it wasn't his fault.

"It was a relatively painless death," Bucky consoled her finally. I can't say that for everyone, he thought. "And I am so sorry." Sharon wiped tears away from her face and was looking at the ceiling and then she stood and Bucky looked up at her.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you." And she hurried out and left Bucky and Bucky wished he had his other hand to help steady his own trembling. He looked down again at the gun wound inside his chest and estimated.

Two days. Three to completely seal up. He thought that maybe, this time, it might leave a scar.

Sharon, almost in a run now outside the hospital room, was cupping her face in her hands and sobbing. Eventually, she would be able to approach Bucky and tell him that he needn't be sorry and she understood now. Already, she understood more than she had been able to before and everything was different and she left quickly, attempting to process the horrible things Bucky had told her, the way he was clearly holding back and the way his face had gone pale and suddenly, all she felt was awash with pity for him, and sadness that _this_ was the lot of good men. Killing and being killed by other good men.


	67. 58 Pain

58 Pain

_Hear me read this chapter here: soundcloud com/blithebells__/58-pain-585 (you're going to have to take out the spaces and add the period between the name and the 'com'. Sorry. :((( )_

Steve finished Bucky's book that day. It didn't end happily, and Steve knew it wouldn't. It ended in Russia with fears of dying and Steve closed the cover and set it down on his bed and scrubbed his face tiredly with both bruised hands.

Pain is a hard thing to avoid, even when you don't have it all written down in smudged ink in a horrible book, because pain is a chasm, it's a vast, frozen lake. You can try to forget and sometimes, you can and you think it might be a Good Day, but it's not. Because the second you start thinking about the pain again, start focusing on it again, start thinking about the way it's eaten your insides, you fall hard right back into another terrible Bad Day.

After all, it was never a Good Day to begin with. It was just pretending to be one, and dancing upon the precipice of pain, tiptoeing on the ice and telling yourself not to look down is no way to live. Sometimes, you _have_ to think about it. Sometimes, it's all you have and all you are and sometimes, you have to look down. Putting on a smile and saying, don't look down, don't look down, breathebreathebreathebreathe, well, that's a certain pain in and of itself.

That's no way to live.

That day, as Steve considered this the nature of pain, this the lake of suffering, he was visited by Sharon. She was in tears, her eyes were red, and she knocked on his door until he yelled for her to come in and she rushed into his bedroom and collapsed next to him on the bed and kissed his bruised hands. Her mouth and cheeks were wet with tears.

"What's wrong?" Steve said, alarmed, as Sharon gently gave him back his hands and hugged herself. "I thought you were with Bucky."

"I think I made a mistake," Sharon said and she swallowed and shook her head. "I don't think I ever knew anything to begin with."

"What are you talking about?" Steve said.

"Bucky told me everything," she said and wiped her face. "And about what happened to Neal. And it's horrible, _horrible_ Steve, I can barely believe what I've heard, but I think I blamed him wrongly and I keep thinking of Neal." Sharon stopped and sobbed. "He had a closed casket funeral, you know," she said. "There was a hole right in the middle of his face." There was a long pause as Sharon tried to collect herself enough to speak and Steve sat up and listened.

"I'm sorry," he finally said quietly and her bottom lip wobbled and she nodded.

"I am, too," she whispered back.

"It wasn't Bucky's fault," Steve encouraged her gently and she nodded again.

"I know," she said. "I know."

They sat there together for a while and Steve waited while Sharon pulled herself together.

"There's so much… Hurt," she said and Steve looked down. "Who's to blame? Who's fault is this?" If not Bucky, Steve knew she was thinking. "Where did we go wrong?"

"I don't know," Steve said. Maybe we didn't, he thought. Go wrong. Maybe we did everything right and pain is just a part of living and standing on the ice is just a risk we take. Maybe pain doesn't have to be anyone's fault, not even mine.

Pain is just a sacrifice we make in order to keep living. Maybe sometimes, it's all we have to tell us we're still alive.

"You know," Sharon said now, having stopped crying, staring now at Steve. "No one's quite who I thought they were a few months ago. Not Bucky, not you…" She made a noise that sounded like some forced laugh and looked away from him, looked down, like she was ashamed. "I'm just getting to really know everyone for the first time now."

"Nice to meet you," Steve said and smiled gently at her and Sharon laughed this time, for real, and she looked at him fondly before leaning over to kiss him on the cheek and stand.

"Do you need anything?" She asked before she left, as she always did, and Steve shook his head.

Maybe there's no one to blame and maybe there's no escaping it. But could there be dealing with it? Could there be living with it? Could there maybe even one day be more true Good Days than Bad Days?  
Steve didn't know what happiness was, but he was willing to learn.


	68. 58 and a half ---

58.5-

It just gets exhausting. The fight to live and to feel worthy of living never ended and Steve was sick of it. Like he'd told Sam, he was tired. It was hard to wake up in the mornings and try to be okay, it was hard to smile, it was hard not to think the things that drove him to just wish he were dead already. It was hard and it was scary and Steve was sick of fighting.

Cause it gets tiresome, defining yourself by pain. There's no sleep that can make it better. And when the misery eats you up and carves you out and makes itself become you, you don't want to fight anymore. You're tired.

But Steve woke up anyway, that day and the next and the one after that and he felt alone and he felt exhausted and he felt miserable, fighting every single day. He was sick of it.

It was just… Hard.


	69. 59 Star

59 Star

It took a couple days for Bucky to get out of the hospital with directions to take it easy, and the moment he was out, he returned to Steve because he recognized the feeling in him of falling apart on the inside and he was desperate in trying to hold everything together.

Steve was getting better. His bruises were going away and his broken bones were healing. He could stand now, although it hurt a little, and he could take care of himself.

Steve decided no more bombs. Not for a while.

When Bucky knocked on the door, it was with an urgency, and Steve opened it as fast as he could and saw Bucky there, looking green.

"What's wrong?" Steve started to ask, but before he could finish, Bucky thrust the handle end of a Swiss Army pocket knife at him with his one, violently shaking hand, and Steve realized.

Next time you feel like that, Steve had said. Next time you feel like that, don't cut yourself up. Find me.

I'll help you.

Carefully, he took the knife from Bucky and snapped it closed, putting it in his back pocket and then, although it hurt to be squeezed, he reached out and enveloped Bucky in an embrace. Bucky returned a tight, almost desperately tight, one-armed hug and Steve invited him inside.

He knew he couldn't quite imagine what Bucky must be feeling as he sat him down carefully in the living room and watched him rub the back of his neck anxiously. They sat there for a long time in thick silence and Steve's mind was filled with thought. Bucky stared blankly at the ground and Steve could see him trembling. Finally, he said something.

"How are you feeling?" Steve said. "They said you saved Sharon."

"It's fine," Bucky said and his eyes flickered down to his own chest and then back at the carpet. "Three days."

"What do you mean?" Steve said.

"Three days to heal completely," Bucky clarified and he swallowed. "It's, uh, it's fine now."

Steve felt as though he ought not tell Bucky it was a good thing. His first instinct was to act positive, to say to Bucky, it's so good that you're feeling better now, but he bit his tongue. It wasn't want Bucky wanted to hear.

And he knew Bucky wasn't exactly feeling better now. He could feel the shape of the knife in his back pocket and swallowed.

"Did something happen?" He asked and Bucky screwed his face up and then shrugged.

"No," he said hollowly, but it wasn't a resigned no, or even a sad one. He sounded almost scared, like it would have been better had something happened because then, he could attribute a reason to feeling so bad. Instead, he just felt bad when he knew he shouldn't and Steve understood this so intimately that he saw it in his face and he wished he knew what to tell Bucky.

"Thanks for coming here," Steve replied and Bucky shrugged again and shifted in his chair.

"I don't want to be this," he said and Steve bit his lip.

"I understand," he said. There was another pause and Steve watched Bucky study the ground.

"You're human," Steve said finally and Bucky stiffened and in his eyes there was the pain of being hit, of being stunned. He looked like he'd been punched in the gut and Steve held his breath.

"I," Bucky choked out. "I dunno, Steve. I don't think I fit that description anymore."

"So maybe you're different," Steve said and leaned in close and threw up his hands. "I am, too."

"Have you ever heard the word 'cyborg'," Bucky continued and he stared at his one right hand and his eyes were so full of hate. He looked over at Steve and the resentment was there. There was pain inside him. "I have. It's a new word, but they needed it to describe people like me because they couldn't use the word 'human'." Steve didn't know what to say. "Or maybe 'monster' would be accurate too, because there's stuff in my blood that makes me different."

"Bucky," Steve said and Bucky's eyes were red and he pressed his mouth together and turned away. He rubbed his face.

"But I don't _want_ to believe that," he said. "So I came here. Keep my knife, I don't want it." After a while, Bucky turned back. "Tony's fixing my prosthetic," he said. "I probably ruined your star painting."

"That's fine, I'll do it again," Steve said and Bucky couldn't seem to meet his eye.

"Thanks" he said. He leaned back into the cushions and covered his eyes tiredly and Steve looked away. "You, uh, been doing more art lately? You haven't told me about anything," Bucky said and Steve knew he was trying to lighten up the conversation, but Steve felt the question heavy like a weight and he didn't know how to respond.

"Uh, no," he said and he wished he could say yes and he wished he could be okay for Bucky and he wished things could just be normal. "No, I, um, haven't."

"Why not?" Bucky asked and Steve grimaced.

"I've been… Tired," he said. "I don't want to do it anymore." He knew now that Bucky could sense the tension in the air, in Steve's shoulders, in his heart. The truth was, he had a hard time seeing the point in creating anymore and it didn't make him feel better and he knew that was wrong, but he didn't know what to do.

"Oh," Bucky said and then he swallowed and continued.

"I think we need a break," he said, looking up now into Steve's face. Steve stared back desperately. "From the… The bombs and the guns and the knives and the hospitals and…" Bucky stopped and pressed his mouth together and stared at the carpet and his eyebrows furrowed and he looked concerned, or angry, or just on the verge of the kind of tears that come too easy and never seem to stop. "A break."

"That'd be nice, Buck, but..." Steve said and he knew he didn't have to continue because the unfinished sentence hung in the air and Steve could see in Bucky's eyes that he'd already finished it.

But it can't happen. That's not our lives.

"It can't be like this forever," Bucky said and Steve nodded and when Bucky stood up to leave, Steve wrapped him in an embrace so tight and didn't want to tell him, please, _please_ stay. "We can't be sad forever."

Steve watched Bucky on the street from his window, watched him put his hand into his pocket, watched the snowflakes swirling and Bucky duck his head to avoid the eye contact and disappear back into the building across the street and Steve turned around and let out a breath and ran one hand through his hair, trying not to let the heartbreak overwhelm him.

Cause Bucky had to be right, he had to be. They couldn't feel like that forever. And Steve wanted to live to see the day they both felt better.


	70. 59 and a half ---

59.5 -

It's courageous to have hope, when hopelessness is so easy. It's courageous to dream of Good Days when you're suffocating in a string of Bad ones. It's courageous to trust someone and let them love you when every voice in your head and everything you are tells you that you are hated.


	71. 60 Apologies

60 Apologies

Bucky found Sharon at his door the next morning and she stood there with her hands folded, looking at him with an expression he didn't recognize.

"I owe you," she sighed. "An apology." Sharon swallowed and Bucky watched her force herself to meet his eyes. He could hear Natalia in the living room behind him, concerned. "I'm sorry, Bucky. I was wrong." Bucky opened the door further and leaned against the doorframe.

"Thank you," he replied quietly and he wondered if it would be the polite thing to invite her in and let her sit, even though he didn't want to.

"What's going on?" Natalia said from behind Bucky and Bucky turned and moved out of the way for her. Sharon pressed her mouth together and looked at the ground and when she looked back up, Bucky recognized what it was in her eyes. He was seeing honest remorse. She wasn't saying this resentfully. "You mean it," Bucky added quietly and Natalia looked over at him and Sharon nodded meekly. That was when Bucky felt emotion begin to well within him, and he began to realize that being hated had made him feel as though something was his fault, but here Sharon was, apologizing. Of course it wasn't his fault, and he felt something lifted off his chest. He was reminded of his confession months ago to Tony Stark and the immediate forgiveness. Forgiving felt like being forgiven in the way relief washed over him.

"I truly, truly do. If I could meet you again…," Sharon said and in an instant, Bucky thrust his hand forward and offered her a smile.

"Why not," he said. "People start over all the time, right?" Sharon looked at his face and back to his hand and then, even though Bucky was worried she wouldn't take it because it was metal, she did and shook his hand.

"You're right," she said and she smiled. "I'd love to start over."

"Would you like to come in?" Bucky finally said when Sharon took back her hand. "You can sit down, I'll make something to eat."

"Oh, no," Sharon said, but when she said it, she was smiling and her voice was friendly. "I'm sorry, but I still need to talk to Steve. I'm afraid I still have apologies to make."

"Alright," Bucky said and gave a cheerful goodbye as he closed the door, but as soon as it was shut, he fell back against the door and rubbed his face with his hands. He could feel Natalia's hands on his shoulder.

"That was nice," Natalia said and Bucky pulled his hands away from his face and looked up and sighed, blinking.

"Yeah," he said, and he looked over at her as she sat her chin on his shoulder and he smiled wearily. "That feels good."

"I know it does," Natalia said. "She's owed you that for a long time."

Not much later, Steve as well found Sharon at his door and her eyes were red and watering. She blinked fiercely, even though he knew she wasn't ashamed to cry, and she tried to smile at him.

"Come on, come in," Steve said and opened his door further and ushered her inside. "What's wrong?"

"I feel like I ought to apologize to you, Steve," Sharon said with her humbled, fallen shoulders and wet eyes. "I don't think I was as good to you as I should have been."

Steve didn't know what to say.

"I don't think I ever really took the time to know you," Sharon said. "Not really. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Steve said, surprised. "Really."

"I thought I loved you, Steve," Sharon continued. "And I know I really admire you." Steve watched her look down and then back at him, pleading. "Can we be friends?"

"Friends? That's all you want?" Steve asked and Sharon nodded.

"I know you don't want to date me, Steve. That's okay. All I want is your friendship," she said and Steve smiled.

"I can give you that," he replied and Sharon smiled back.

"Thank you," she said.

_Dropping this along with the Marvel AoU trailer in celebration! Is everyone excited?_

_I'll be back for the next few days, but _RSBreathe _is coming to a close, so get ready for an ending and then a discussion of my next projects!_

_Also, another note worthy of celebration; with this chapter, _Breathe_ is now at 60,000+ words, which again, by Writer's Digest standards, makes it the length of a proper novel! Thank you to everyone who has commented and read and followed this story with me. It means so, so much._

_(Also, I feel a little selfish throwing this up here, but happy late birthday to me? :) I wanted to post _on _my birthday to give everyone a present, but I didn't feel ready until now.) -BB_


	72. 61 Loved

61 Loved

Natasha was there the next day when Steve realized that he had actually come a long way from wanting to die.

"Everything's been hectic," Natasha said and she wrapped her arms around Steve and hugged him once he let her in. "I've missed you!"

"You have?" Steve said and Natasha smiled at him.

"Of course, Rogers," she said teasingly. And there was a difference, Steve found, between people telling you they love you and showing you they loved you and one, he had a hard time believing, but the other… It meant something to him and it was starting to make living worth it.

Maybe there's also a difference between _knowing _that you're loved and _feeling_ that you're loved. Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe 'burden' wasn't the right word to describe how he felt anymore.

"How do you do it?" Steve asked as Natasha pulled away from him and she looked at him with an eyebrow raised as she crossed him to drop onto his couch.

"Do what?" She asked and Steve raised his hands.

"This," he said. "Me, and Bucky." Natasha looked down and she seemed to understand what he meant, that her patience kept them both from falling apart and her strength to bounce back and forth between them was impressive. "Anyone else would have given up. I'm a mess, Buck can't even speak English sometimes..." Natasha rolled her eyes and laughed a little as she kicked back on his couch but then when she looked at him, her eyes were sombering. She took in a breath and Steve stood there and waited for her response.

"When you love someone," Natasha said and she shifted on the couch, putting her arms behind her head. "You'd go to the ends of the Earth." She looked up and her eyes met Steve's. "And if that means staying up every night with James when he's scared, I'll do it and if that means pulling you out of death traps every day," Natasha laughed and Steve put his hands into his pockets and looked away, but he smiled a little. "I'll do that, too. That's what friends do for each other."

And that's what Natasha had done for Steve, what Bucky had done for Steve, and what Steve would do for either of them. And Steve was slowly beginning to see the happiness. It was hard, and it would take even longer for him to _be_ happy, but he _felt loved._ And that was worth it.

Because sometimes, the choice to live is simply the choice not to die. But it's getting there. It's getting there.


	73. 62 The End

62 The End

_Hear me read this chapter at soundcloud blithebells/62-the-end_

Blue first.

A wide, clean blue circle, arcing over silver and shining in the light.

Next white, then red.

Move your arm. Turn the plates. A second coat will help.

Steve could feel Bucky holding almost entirely still and Steve focused on keeping the paint thick and even.

It wasn't really much that he was doing, but creating again felt good. It was tiring, surprisingly so, but another courageous thing is to work even when you're worn and in pain. And after all, that's what superheroes do, isn't it? They're courageous.

Paint is easy to go over, to cover up, to pretend everything was okay when underneath, Steve was screaming. But here and now, it was different. This star was honest, he realized. It hid nothing.

"I'm not covering anything this time," he mentioned quietly to Bucky and Bucky looked over at Steve and the paintbrush in his hand and back down at his own clean, shining shoulder.

"Yeah," he replied. "Imagine that."

It had taken maybe half a week for Tony to ship Bucky's prosthetic back to him in tip-top condition. Well, all except for the scraped and mutilated star, and right after Bucky managed to get his arm back on, he and Steve scrubbed off the remaining paint in order to start again.

White paint. Sharp angles for the star. Turn this way, Buck, stay in the light.

"I finished your book," Steve said after a while and Bucky became tense suddenly and Steve pulled his paintbrush back just in time to save what would have been a smear. There was quiet and Bucky eased back into Steve, who was leaning across the counter again like he had been a month or two ago when they'd done this the first time.

"Don't know what to say," he replied after a while. "It, uh… Must not have been a lot of fun."

"That wasn't the point," Steve replied and he let out a breath and brought the back of his hand to his face to rub his eyes and almost drew a line of bright white across his forehead in an attempt to keep emotion from his itching eyes. Bucky laughed a little and smiled, a true laugh, one Steve hadn't heard in a while.

"Watch it, Picasso," he said and Steve rolled his eyes and grinned back.

It was one of those Good Days, for both of them. He could smile.

"I don't have anything like it to give you," Steve added as he continued on Bucky's shoulder and his face became serious once more. "But, uh, I guess that's cause I'm not… gonna die." He wasn't looking at Bucky's face, and he stared hard at the star on his shoulder to avoid it, but out of the corner of his eye, he could feel Bucky look up at him suddenly.

"You're not?" He said. Steve made a face.

"No," he said. "No, I'm not." Bucky looked away and Steve took his elbow and prompted him to move it and the plates slid away to reveal metal not yet painted.

"I'm really glad," Bucky said quietly and Steve looked up and blinked and set his paintbrush down and stood up. Bucky looked up at him from his stool and dropped his arm slowly. Steve cupped his face in both hands and scrubbed it.

"You have to help me though, Bucky, I," Steve said through his hands and then he stepped back and put his hands on his waist and looked off and he could feel his face growing red but he didn't have the time anymore to care about it. "I don't know," he said. "It's hard."

"I know," Bucky said and he sat forward like he was going to stand too, but he didn't. "I know, I understand." He sat back then a little and stared at Steve and Steve glanced over at him desperately. Bucky gave him a look he recognized, cocking his head just in the slightest, staring at him. "You know I'll always be there for you, right?" He said. "To the end of the line?"

Like it always did, that phrase sparked a welling of pain inside of Steve and he struggled to keep a cap on it.

"Yeah," he said. "I know that… I know it now. I think that's part of the reason I can live, why I can choose it."

"What do you mean," Bucky asked. Steve looked back at him and dropped his hands from his waist and shrugged.

"It's harder to find a point in living when you, uh, don't think you're doing any good for anyone," he admitted and then he stepped forward and sat back down, staring at the countertop. "When you don't mean something to anyone."

"You mean something to me," Bucky said.

"I know," Steve said and raised his hands. "Now… I know." Steve looked up a little from the counter and then he picked up his brush again and wet it again in paint. "Move in," he said quietly and Bucky did. He could feel Bucky's eyes on him as he worked again, striving now to keep the redness from his face and the wetness from his eyes.

"I can keep reminding you," Bucky offered quietly as Steve set down his brush and picked up another one of a different size. Steve rubbed his face, clean brush in hand, and stared hard at Bucky's shoulder.

There was no one moment of truth for Steve. It came as a slow realization, one that sinks in after a long time, after someone takes the time every day to make you feel loved like Bucky probably didn't even know he'd done for Steve.

It was hard to believe, when people _said_ they loved him and _said_ that Steve wasn't a burden, but after a while, drinking the soup Bucky had tried so hard to make for him, hugging him when they both felt ready to die, well, there's something nice in knowing someone needs you as much as you need them. It's not a fast realization thing. It's a slow, building declaration of love and even if that's all you have, all you have in the world, it's one of those shining happy spots that's _worth it._

Sam had told Steve that no one could choose life for him. That they could help him and walk with him always, but that in the end, it was Steve who would have to take the steps towards recovery, towards feeling like living. It was his decision to make. But he didn't do it alone, and he choose life while in the warmth of Natasha's smile when she looked at him and the way Sharon had tried so hard to be kind to him and how Bucky's friendship and his returned love was everything.

"Do I deserve this?" Steve said quietly and watched the red now, bright red ringing the rest of the insignia. He brought his brush up again, loaded with more paint, and finished the circle.

"Huh?" Bucky said.

"Love," Steve said. "Do I deserve it." Bucky looked down at Steve's painting and when Steve told him to move, he did, rolling his shoulder back, careful with the drying paint.

"It's not about deserving it, Steve, it's," Bucky said and his eyes flickered up to Steve now. "It's bigger than that, I think." Steve just nodded quietly.

"I guess I'm giving you this," Steve said and he looked up at Bucky and held up his paintbrush. "This star. It's not a journal, but…" but it's a declaration of love.

"Thank you," Bucky replied and Steve smiled.

"You're welcome," he replied.

Steve had fought a war. He'd fought bullies in back alleys and chitauri in New York and even his own best friend once or twice and he lived. He didn't understand it, and sometimes he didn't like it, but he _lived_. And he'd do it one more time.


	74. 62 and a half ---

Staying afloat is hard and

happiness isn't easy and

living is for those happy moments

that breathe like perfume and fade like vapor

and it's for the people you share them with because they make the dark spaces in between not matter anymore, at least a little, and it was hard, but Steve was breathing.

You're going to be okay.

THE END

_I want to thank everyone who has stuck it out with me so far. Thank you for your reads and votes and comments and messages-truly, it meant the world. I'm so grateful to have you all with me! This story was so important to me and I hope that even though it's tone was dark and heavy, the message was an uplifting one of hope. All I really want these stories to say is, 'you're not alone'. So thank you again. You've made this experience worthwhile._

_Now it is time, as I promised, to talk about what's next for me and, of course, for you as my readers! :) I am both happy and anxious to report to you that I have a lot of work lined up for me. Let me give you an idea!_

_The first thing to report is that this is not necessarily the end for RSBreathe. This was a special project, and one I'm glad I had the chance to work on, but as I wrote, the story began to tell itself to me. Bottom line is, as I wrote this as a first draft, I came to understand what the story was truly about and I think I can tell it better now. Breathe deserves a second draft out of me and that's what it's going to get. I'm not entirely sure what to promise you yet, and I'm not sure yet exactly what will change or when I can update the book as a whole, but I do plan on giving Breathe another look and trying to make it the story it really wants and needs to be._

_While I work on Breathe's second draft, I will also be pursuing another Captain America fanfiction project! I'm really, really excited for this one and I have a lot to say about the details, but let's suffice it to say that this is primarily a Bucky and Natasha, or a Winter Widow, fic. I hesitate to say it's a third installment in the collection of works that make up Run and Breathe, but it does take place after Breathe. However, this project is vastly different in structure, given that I wanted to try something new! And I think it should be a little bit more lighthearted, but we'll have to see. :) One goal I have for this story is that it be a little easier to jump into. Readers shouldn't have to have finished Run and Breathe to start this new project, although I would encourage them to._

_My next few projects will probably not be posted here, but I'll give you an idea of what I'm working on anyway! The next project is a story I'm working on with a close friend and it follows the story of two former Black Widow candidates who set out to hunt down the Winter Soldier after his escape. :) If circumstances are right and I think you as a readership would be interested, I'll talk to my friend about sharing it with you!_

_The next one (I know, I'm taking on a lot. Bare with me.) is an original fiction work with another good friend. It's an apocalyptic setting dealing with characters with such struggles as schizophrenia and PTSD._

_An ambitious (and secret) fic inspired by 'The Fault in Our Stars' that I actually might have to sideline until I've got less on my plate._

_Wow, WHEEW. What a block of text! Thank you for sticking it out! XD_

_The next issue I want to address is NaNoWriMo. As most of you know, this is an annual challenge to all writers to finish an entire novel in a month! It's a November event and it's really coming up fast, so here's where I'm conflicted. No matter what, I know I'm going to hit the 60,000 word mark by November, even if it's through several different projects combined. So what I'm trying to decide is if I should commit to posting. I think I could try to post as often as I can with my Winter Widow fic in November, but of course, until at least winter break, I won't be able to get back consistently to my 'post a day' schedule._

_I'm open to opinions and suggestions about whether or not I should post anything during November! Tell me what you think! -BB_


	75. a note

_A nice Guest review today reminded me that I have not posted this update! I am so sorry! I didn't earlier because I thought I already had. No worries, though, because you have no missed any new stories yet. :) Here is all the information now!_

_Quickly before I begin, I want to thank everyone who has stuck it out with me so far. Thank you for your reads and favorites and comments and messages-truly, it meant the world. I'm so grateful to have you all with me! This story was so important to me and I hope that even though it's tone was dark and heavy, the message was an uplifting one of hope. All I really want these stories to say is, 'you're not alone'. So thank you again. You've made this experience worthwhile._

_Now it is time to talk about what's next for me and, of course, for you as my readers! :) I am both happy and anxious to report to you that I have a lot of work lined up for me. Let me give you an idea!_

_The first thing to report is that this is not necessarily the end for _RSBreathe_. This was a special project, and one I'm glad I had the chance to work on, but as I wrote, the story began to tell itself to me. Bottom line is, as I wrote this as a first draft, I came to understand what the story was truly about and I think I can tell it better now. Breathe deserves a second draft out of me and that's what it's going to get. I'm not entirely sure what to promise you yet, and I'm not sure yet exactly what will change or when I can update the book as a whole, but I do plan on giving Breathe another look and trying to make it the story it really wants and needs to be._

_While I work on Breathe's second draft, I will also be pursuing another Captain America fanfiction project! I'm really, really excited for this one and I have a lot to say about the details, but let's suffice it to say that this is primarily a Bucky and Natasha, or a Winter Widow, fic. I hesitate to say it's a third installment in the collection of works that make up Run and Breathe, but it does take place after Breathe. However, this project is vastly different in structure, given that I wanted to try something new! And I think it should be a little bit more lighthearted, but we'll have to see. :) One goal I have for this story is that it be a little easier to jump into. Readers shouldn't have to have finished Run and Breathe to start this new project, although I would encourage them to. __**This is the project I'll be posting next. **_

_My next few projects will probably not be posted here, but I'll give you an idea of what I'm working on anyway! The next project is a story I'm working on with a close friend and it follows the story of two former Black Widow candidates who set out to hunt down the Winter Soldier after his escape. :) If circumstances are right and I think you as a readership would be interested, I'll talk to my friend about sharing it with you!_

_The next one (I know, I'm taking on a lot. Bare with me.) is an original fiction work with another good friend. It's an apocalyptic setting dealing with characters with such struggles as schizophrenia and PTSD._

_An ambitious (and secret) fic inspired by 'The Fault in Our Stars' that I actually might have to sideline until I've got less on my plate._

_Wow, WHEEW. What a block of text! Thank you for sticking it out! XD_

_The next issue I want to address is NaNoWriMo. As most of you know, this is an annual challenge to all writers to finish an entire novel in a month! It's a November event and it starts TODAY! I've decided to do what I can about posting during the month, and I'm worried about committing to a schedule, so would everyone be okay if I just promised to post my Winter Widow fic as often as possible? It'll probably be _at least_ once each week._

_In addition to this, you can follow my NaNo progress here _nanowrimo (.org) /participants/blithebells_ and hear about it from my personal blog at _the-sound-of-bells (.tumblr.) com

_(ps try my tag #kait writes, #writing and my new one, #nanowrimo)_

_Thank you to everyone again! _


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